“No; do not do that,” replied the nightingale; “the bird did very well as
long as it could. Keep it here still. I cannot live in the palace, and build my
nest; but let me come when I like. I will sit on a bough outside your
window, in the evening, and sing to you, so that you may be happy, and
have thoughts full of joy. I will sing to you of those who are happy, and
those who suffer; of the good and the evil, who are hidden around you. The
little singing bird flies far from you and your court to the home of the
fisherman and the peasant’s cot. I love your heart better than your crown;
and yet something holy lingers round that also. I will come, I will sing to
you; but you must promise me one thing.”
“Everything,” said the emperor, who, having dressed himself in his
imperial robes, stood with the hand that held the heavy golden sword
pressed to his heart.
“I only ask one thing,” she replied; “let no one know that you have a little
bird who tells you everything. It will be best to conceal it.” So saying, the
nightingale flew away.
The servants now came in to look after the dead emperor; when, lo! there
he stood, and, to their astonishment, said, “Good morning.”
