THE NIGHTINGALE
hastened away to greet the new Emperor; the men ran out for a little gossip on the subject, and the maids were having a grand coffee-party.
The floors of all the rooms and passages were covered with cloth, in order that not a step should be heard—it was everywhere so still! so still! But the Emperor was not yet dead; stiff and pale he lay in his splendid bed, with the long velvet curtains, and heavy gold tassels. A window was opened above, and the moon shone down on the Emperor and the artificial bird.
The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it appeared to him as though something was sitting on his chest; he opened his eyes, and saw that it was Death, who had put on the Emperor's crown, and with one hand held the golden scimitar, with the other the splendid imperial banner; whilst, from under the folds of the thick velvet hangings, the strangest-looking heads were seen peering forth; some with an expression absolutely hideous, and others with an extremely gentle and lovely aspect: they were the bad and good deeds of the Emperor, which were now all fixing their eyes upon him, whilst Death sat on his heart.
'Dost thou know this?' they whispered one after another. 'Dost thou remember that?' And they began reproaching him in such a manner that the sweat broke out upon his forehead.
'I have never known anything like it,' said the Emperor. 'Music, music, the great Chinese drum!' cried he; 'let me not hear what they are saying.'
They went on, however; and Death, quite in the Chinese fashion, nodded his head to every word.
'Music, music!' cried the Emperor. 'Thou dear little artificial bird! sing, I pray thee, sing!—I have given thee gold
185
