“Has no mortal ever beheld the faery revels?” I asked, after thanking Phancie for his kindness.
“Yes—one Shakespeare,” he answered, nodding his head: “long, long ago the King allowed him to see our solemnity; but he told all about it to the world, which made the King very angry.”
“But he told it so beautifully,” I pleaded.
“I don’t know so much about that,” responded Phancie saucily. “He said Oberon and Titania quarrelled, which is quite a mistake, for they are very fond of one another. Oh, I assure you the affair caused quite a scandal at court; since then the King mistrusts all mortals, and won’t allow them to see anything.”
“Perhaps, then, he’ll send me away.”
“I can’t tell, but it’s very probable he will; or perhaps he will let you stay, and then cause you to forget all you have seen, except what he wishes you to remember.”
“I hope he won’t make me forget the stories I have read.”
“No, he won’t do that; he said you could remember seven, and he never goes back from his word; but as to remembering our revels, I’m afraid he won’t let you do that. But hush! the court is approaching. Go and sit on that fallen tree again.”
I arose obediently, and, walking across the glade to the tree, sat down on it; then, warned by Phancie, kept quite silent.
“You mustn’t speak unless the King asks you a question,” said Phancie pompously. “If he does, be sure to address him as ‘Your Majesty.’”