"Hold!" cried the King. "It is gone too far! He has surely not
carried out the jest by dying on our hands."

"No, no, sir," said Wren, after a moment's alarm, "he has only
swooned. Has any one here a flask of wine to revive him?"

Several gentlemen had come up, and as Peregrine stirred, some wine
was held to his lips, and he presently asked in a faint voice, "Is
this fairyland?"

"Not yet, my lad," said Charles, "whatever it may be when Wren's
work is done."

The boy opened his eyes, and as he beheld the same face, and the too
familiar sky and trees, he sighed heavily, and said, "Then it is all
the same! O sir, would you but have cut off my head in good
earnest, I might be at home again!"

"Home! what means the elf?"

"An elf! That is what they say I am--changed in the cradle," said
Peregrine, incited to confidence by the good-natured eyes, "and I
thought if I were close on death mine own people might take me home,
and bring back the right one."

"He really believes it!" exclaimed Charles much diverted. "Tell me,
good Master Elf, who is thy father, I mean not my brother Oberon,
but him of the right one, as thou sayst."

"Mr. Robert Oakshott of Oakwood, sir," said Peregrine.