A Reputed Changeling | Page 9

the Versailles fountains, if only the water
can be raised to such a height. Are you sure of it, Wren?"
"As certain as hydraulics can make me, sir," and the lesser man began
drawing lines with his stick in the dust of the path in demonstration.
The opportunity was irresistible, and the hook from above deftly caught
the band of the feathered hat of the taller man, slowly and steadily
drawing it up, entirely unperceived by the owner, on whose wig it had
rested, and who was bending over the dust-traced diagram in absorbed
attention. Peregrine deferred his hobgoblin laughter, for success
emboldened him farther. Detaching the hat from his hook, and
depositing it safely in a fork of the tree, he next cautiously let down his
line, and contrived to get a strong hold of one of the black locks on the
top of the wig, just as the wearer was observing, "Oliver's Battery, eh?
A cupola with a light to be seen out at sea? Our sailors will make
another St. Christopher of you! Ha! what's this'"
For feeling as if a branch were touching the structure on his head, he
had stepped forward, thus favouring Peregrine's manoeuvres so that the
wig dangled in the air, suddenly disclosing the bare skull of a very dark
man, with such marked features that it needed not the gentlemen's
outcry to show the boy who was the victim of his mischief.
"What imp is there?" cried the King, spying up into the tree, while his
attendant drew his sword, "How now?" as Peregrine half climbed, half
tumbled down, bringing hat and wig with him, and, whether by design
or accident, fell at his feet. "Will nothing content you but royal game?"
he continued laughing, as Sir Christopher Wren helped him to resume
his wig. "Why, what a shrimp it is! a mere goblin sprite! What's thy
name, master wag?"
"Peregrine Oakshott, so please you," the boy answered, raising himself
with a face scared indeed, but retaining its queer impishness. "Sir, I
never guessed--"
"Young rogue! have you our licence to waylay our loyal subjects?"

demanded the King, with an affected fierceness. "Know you not 'tis
rank treason to discrown our sacred Majesty, far more to dishevel or
destroy our locks? Why! I might behead you on the spot." To his great
amazement the boy, with an eager face and clasped hands, exclaimed,
"O sir! Oh, please your Majesty, do so."
"Do so!" exclaimed the King astounded. "Didst hear what I said?"
"Yes, sir! You said it was a beheading matter, and I'm willing, sir."
"Of all the petitions that ever were made to me, this is the strangest!"
exclaimed Charles. "An urchin like this weary of life! What next? So,"
with a wink to his companions, "Peregrine Oakshott, we condemn thee
for high treason against our most sacred Majesty's beaver and periwig,
and sentence thee to die by having thine head severed from thy body.
Kneel down, open thy collar, bare thy neck. Ay, so, lay thy neck across
that bough. Killigrew, do thy duty."
To the general surprise, the boy complied with all these directions,
never flinching nor showing sign of fear, except that his lips were set
and his cheek whitened. As he knelt, with closed eyes, the flat cold
blade descended on his neck, the tension relaxed, and he sank!
"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.
"A sturdy squire of the country party," said the King. "I am much
minded to