When five years were passed away, a great affliction visited the whole empire, for in their hearts the people thought highly of their Emperor; and now he was ill, and it was reported that he could not live. A new Emperor had already been chosen, and the people stood in the street, outside the palace, and asked the Cavalier how the Emperor was? [Illustration: THE CHIEF IMPERIAL NIGHTINGALE BRINGER] ‘Pish!’ said he, and shook his head. Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his magnificent bed; all the court believed him to be already dead, and every one had 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 and precious stones, I have even hung my golden slippers round thy neck--sing, I pray thee, sing!’ But the bird was silent; there was no one there to wind him up, and he could not sing without this. Death continued to stare at the Emperor with his great hollow eyes! and everywhere it was still, fearfully still! All at once the sweetest song was heard from the window; it was the little living nightingale who was sitting on a branch outside--she had heard of her Emperor’s severe illness, and was come to sing to him of comfort and hope. As she sang, the spectral forms became paler and paler, the blood flowed more and more quickly through the Emperor’s feeble members, and even Death listened and said, ‘Go on, little nightingale, go on.’