by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to
me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me,
and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into
my veins, and become mine."

"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale,
"and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood,
and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot
of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the
bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the
hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird
compared to the heart of a man?"

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed
through the grove.

The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him,
and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red
rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my
own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a
true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though he is wise, and
mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings,
and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and
his breath is like frankincense."

[Illustration: HIS LIPS ARE SWEET AS HONEY]

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not
understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the
things that are written down in books.

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the
little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when
you are gone."

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water
bubbling from a silver jar.

When she had finished her song, the Student got up, and pulled a
note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the
grove--"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling?
I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style
without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She
thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish.
Still, it