The day waned to its close, and the waiting multitudes outside the palace
grew crazed with anxiety and apprehension. The twilight came on, the
shadows fell deeper and deeper. The king and his court could no longer
see each other’s faces. No one spoke–none called for lights. The great
trial had been made; it had failed; each and all wished to hide their
faces from the light and cover up their deep trouble in their own hearts.
Finally-hark! A rich, full strain of the divinest melody streamed forth
from a remote part of the hall the nightingale’s voice!
“Up!” shouted the king, “let all the bells make proclamation to the
people, for the choice is made and we have not erred. King, dynasty,
and nation are saved. From henceforth let the nightingale be honored
throughout the land forever. And publish it among all the people that
whosoever shall insult a nightingale, or injure it, shall suffer death.
The king hath spoken.”
All that little world was drunk with joy. The castle and the city blazed
with bonfires all night long, the people danced and drank and sang; and
the triumphant clamor of the bells never ceased.
From that day the nightingale was a sacred bird. Its song was heard in
every house; the poets wrote its praises; the painters painted it; its
sculptured image adorned every arch and turret and fountain and public
building. It was even taken into the king’s councils; and no grave
matter of state was decided until the soothsayers had laid the thing
before the state nightingale and translated to the ministry what it was
that the bird had sung about it.
II
The young king was very fond of the chase. When the summer was come he
rode forth with hawk and hound, one day, in a brilliant company of his
nobles. He got separated from them by and by, in a great forest, and
took what he imagined a neat cut, to find them again; but it was a
mistake. He rode on and on, hopefully at first, but with sinking courage
finally. Twilight came on, and still he was plunging through a lonely
and unknown land. Then came a catastrophe. In the dim light he forced
his horse through a tangled thicket overhanging a steep and rocky
declivity. When horse and rider reached the bottom, the former had a
broken neck and the latter a broken leg. The poor little king lay there
suffering agonies of pain, and each hour seemed a long month to him.
He kept his ear strained to heat any sound that might promise hope of
rescue; but he heard no voice, no sound of horn or bay of hound. So at
last he gave up all hope, and said, “Let death come, four come it must.”
Just then the deep, sweet song of a nightingale swept across the still
wastes of the night.
“Saved!” the king said. “Saved! It is the sacred bird, and the prophecy
is come true. The gods themselves protected me from error in the
choice.”
He could hardly contain his joy; he could not word his gratitude. Every
few moments, now he thought he caught the sound of approaching succor.
But each time it was a disappointment; no succor came. The dull hours
drifted on. Still no help came–but still the sacred bird sang on. He
began to have misgivings about his choice, but he stifled them. Toward
dawn the bird ceased. The morning came, and with it thirst and hunger;
but no succor. The day waxed and waned. At last the king cursed the
nightingale.
Immediately the song of the thrush came from out the wood. The king said
in his heart, “This was the true-bird–my choice was false–succor will
come now.”
But it did not come. Then he lay many hours insensible. When he came to
himself, a linnet was singing. He listened-with apathy. His faith was
gone. “These birds,” he said, “can bring no help; I and my house and my
people are doomed.” He turned him about to die; for he was grown very
feeble from hunger and thirst and suffering, and felt that his end was
near. In truth, he wanted to die, and be released from pain. For long