But the emperor was not dead yet. There he lay on the gorgeous bed with its velvet hangings and heavy gold tassels. A window stood open, and the moon shone in on him and the artificial bird. He could hardly breathe, and he felt burdened by a weight on his chest. He opened his eyes and saw that Death was sitting on his chest and wore the emperor’s golden crown on his head. In one hand he held the emperor’s golden sword, and in the other the emperor’s imperial banner. Round about, from among the folds of the velvet hangings peered many strange faces, some hideous, and others gentle and pleasant. These were all the emperor’s bad and good deeds staring at him now that Death was sitting on his heart.
“Do you remember this?” they whispered one after the other. “Do you recollect this?” And they told him so many things that the perspiration ran down from his brow.
“Say no more,” begged the emperor, and then shouted: “Music, music! Sound the great drum so that I may not hear what these faces are saying.”
But they went on questioning him, and Death sat nodding his approval to all that they said.
“Music, music!” shrieked the emperor. “You precious little golden bird, sing, sing! I have given you costly jewels, and I have hung my golden garter round your neck. Sing, I tell you, sing!”
But the bird was silent. It could not sing without being wound up, and there was no one at hand to do that. Death continued to gaze at the emperor with the great empty sockets of his eyes, and all was still—terribly still.
Suddenly, through the open window, there came the sound of sweetest singing. The living nightingale was perched on a bough outside. It had heard of the emperor’s illness, and had come to bring comfort and hope to him by its singing. As it sang, the ghostly faces around became fainter and fainter, and the blood coursed with fresh vigor through the emperor’s veins, and strengthened his feeble limbs. Even Death listened and said, “Go on, little nightingale, go on!”
“Yes,” said the nightingale, “I will go on if you will give me the emperor’s beautiful golden sword and imperial banner and jeweled crown.”
“I will relinquish each of the three treasures in exchange for a song,” said Death.
So the nightingale sang three songs, and the last was about the quiet churchyard where the roses bloom, and the flowers of the elder scent the air, and where the grass is ever moistened by the tears of the mourners. This song made Death desire to be in his own garden, and like a cold gray mist he floated out through the window.