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第9部分（第1页）

“The　musicians　will　sit　in　their　gallery，”　said　the　young　Student，　“and　play　upon　their　stringed　instruments，　and　my　love　will　dance　to　the　sound　of　the　harp　and　the　violin。　She　will　dance　so　lightly　that　her　feet　will　not　touch　the　floor，　and　the　courtiers　in　their　gay　dresses　will　throng　round　her。　But　with　me　she　will　not　dance，　for　I　have　no　red　rose　to　give　her”；　and　he　flung　himself　down　on　the　grass，　and　buried　his　face　in　his　hands，　and　wept。

“Why　is　he　weeping？”　asked　a　little　Green　Lizard，　as　he　ran　past　him　with　his　tail　in　the　air。

“Why，　indeed？”　said　a　Butterfly，　who　was　fluttering　about　after　a　sunbeam。

“Why，　indeed？”　whispered　a　Daisy　to　his　neighbour，　in　a　soft，　low　voice。

“He　is　weeping　for　a　red　rose，”　said　the　Nightingale。

“For　a　red　rose？”　they　cried；　“how　very　ridiculous！”　and　the　little　Lizard，　who　was　something　of　a　cynic，　laughed　outright。

But　the　Nightingale　understood　the　secret　of　the　Student’s　sorrow，　and　she　sat　silent　in　the　oak…tree，　and　thought　about　the　mystery　of　Love。

Suddenly　she　spread　her　brown　wings　for　flight，　and　soared　into　the　air。　She　passed　through　the　grove　like　a　shadow，　and　like　a　shadow　she　sailed　across　the　garden。

In　the　centre　of　the　grass…plot　was　standing　a　beautiful　Rose…tree，　and　when　she　saw　it　she　flew　over　to　it，　and　lit　upon　a　spray。

“Give　me　a　red　rose，”　she　cried，　“and　I　will　sing　you　my　sweetest　song。”

But　the　Tree　shook　its　head。

“My　roses　are　white，”　it　answered；　“as　white　as　the　foam　of　the　sea，　and　whiter　than　the　snow　upon　the　mountain。　But　go　to　my　brother　who　grows　round　the　old　sun…dial，　and　perhaps　he　will　give　you　what　you　want。”

So　the　Nightingale　flew　over　to　the　Rose…tree　that　was　growing　round　the　old　sun…dial。

“Give　me　a　red　rose，”　she　cried，　“and　I　will　sing　you　my　sweetest　song。”

But　the　Tree　shook　its　head。

“My　roses　are　yellow，”　it　answered；　“as　yellow　as　the　hair　of　the　mermaiden　who　sits　upon　an　amber　throne，　and　yellower　than　the　daffodil　that　blooms　in　the　meadow　before　the　mower　es　with　his　scythe。　But　go　to　my　brother　who　grows　beneath　the　Student’s　window，　and　perhaps　he　will　give　you　what　you　want。”

So　the　Nightingale　flew　over　to　the　Rose…tree　that　was　growing　beneath　the　Student’s　window。

“Give　me　a　red　rose，”　she　cried，　“and　I　will　sing　you　my　sweetest　song。”

But　the　Tree　shook　its　head。

“My　roses　are　red，”　it　answered，　“as　red　as　the　feet　of　the　dove，　and　redder　than　the　great　fans　of　coral　that　wave　and　wave　in　the　ocean…cavern。　But　the　winter　has　chilled　my　veins，　and　the　frost　has　nipped　my　buds，　and　the　storm　has　broken　my　branches，　and　I　shall　have　no　roses　at　all　this　year。”

“One　red　rose　is　all　I　want，”　cried　the　Nightingale，　“only　one　red　rose！　Is　there　no　way　by　which　I　can　get　it？”

“There　is　a　way，”　answered　the　Tree；　“but　it　is　so　terrible　that　I　dare　not　tell　it　to　you。”

“Tell　it　to　me，”　said　the　Nightingale，　“I　am　not　afraid。”

“If　you　want　a　red　rose，”　said　the　Tree，　“you　must　build　it　out　of　music　by　moonlight，　and　stain　it　with　your　own　heart’s…blood。　You　must　sing　to　me　with　your　breast　against　a　thorn。　All　night　long　you　must　sing　to　me，　and　the　thorn　must　pierce　your　heart，　and　your　life…blood　must　flow　into　my　veins，　and　bee　mine。”

“Death　is　a　great　price　to　pay　for　a　red　rose，”　cried　the　Nightingale，　“and　Life　is　very　dear　to　all。　It　is　pleasant　to　sit　in　the　green　wood，　and　to　watch　the　Sun　in　his　chariot　of　gold，　and　the　Moon　in　her　chariot　of　pearl。　Sweet　is　the　scent　of　the　hawthorn，　and　sweet　are　the　bluebells　that　hide　in　the　valley，　and　the　heather　that　blows　on　the　hill。　Yet　Love　is　better　than　Life，　and　what　is　the　heart　of　a　bird　pared　to　the　heart　of　a　man？”

So　she　spread　her　brown　wings　for　flight，　and　soared　into　the　air。　She　swept　over　the　garden　like　a　shadow，　and　like　a　shadow　she　sailed　through　the　grove。

The　young　Student　was　still　lying　on　the　grass，　where　she　had　left　him，　and　the　tears　were　not　yet　dry　in　his　beautiful　eyes。

“Be　happy，”　cried　the　Nightingale，　“be　happy；　you　shall　have　your　red　rose。　I　will　build　it　out　of　music　by　moonlight，　and　stain　it　with　my　own　heart’s…blood。　All　that　I　ask　of　you　in　return　is　that　you　will　be　a　true　lover，　for　Love　is　wiser　than　Philosophy，　though　she　is　wise，　and　mightier　than　Power，　though　he　is　mighty。　Flame…coloured　are　his　wings，　and　coloured　like　flame　is　his　body。　His　lips　are　sweet　as　honey，　and　his　breath　is　like　frankincense。”

The　Student　looked　up　from　the　grass，　and　listened，　but　he　could　not　understand　what　the　Nightingale　was　saying　to　him，　for　he　only　knew　the　things　that　are　written　down　in　books。

But　the　Oak…tree　understood，　and　felt　sad，　for　he　was　very　fond　of　the　little　Nightingale　who　had　built　her　nest　in　his　branches。

“Sing　me　one　last　song，”　he　whispered；　“I　shall　feel　very　lonely　when　you　are　gone。”

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