he loch, and leaps under the waves to devour its prey.
Foals of a specially vicious turn are believed to have this brute for
their sire: in some such way the furious nature of the horse called
"Kelpy" in George Macdonald's story might be explained.

Certain lochs in Skye are believed to harbour a variant terror, the
water-bull. Loch Morar, on the mainland, contains a huge mystic bogie,
undefined in shape, but of terrible malignity. I have heard too, in
Uist, of a phantom dog, with eyes of glede and unearthly bark, that
frequents the entrance to the old wayside burying-ground. No driver,
unless fortified by several glasses, will drive you that way after dark.

"Duncan," said a commercial traveller to a driver, "I'll have to go to
Gruiginish farm to-night. Have everything ready at 8.30."

"I can't do that, Mr. Smith; it'll be dark."

"But you have lamps, Duncan."

"Yes, yes, but I can't go. You have to pass the old cemetery."

"I know that, but I must attend to my business. What ails you at the
cemetery?"

"There's the dog at the gate, the dog with the eyes of burning coal.
What is he doing there? And the wee man inside, _What is he doing
there?_"

"I don't know what he's doing, but to Gruiginish this night I must go.
Do you think a glass of _forked lightning_ would do you any good?"

"Well, it might help."

In spite of more than one glass of forked lightning, poor Duncan was in
a terrible state of excitement when the cemetery was approached. He kept
his head averted, and clutched the reins so nervously that the vehicle
was in imminent danger of being upset.

It is a beautiful saying of Goldsmith that innocently to amuse the
imagination in this dream of life is wisdom. Judged by this standard,
the imaginative operations taking place in Duncan's brain, considering
their effect on his happiness, cannot be pronounced either innocent or
wise. To add ideal terrors to the prosaic hardships of a place like Uist
is the very height of folly. And yet it is precisely in such bare and
rough regions where man has to fight with nature as with a constant
foe, that the unseen powers are believed to be most terrible. The
_lutin_ of the smiling land of France is a mere capering trickster, and
the "lubber fiend" of Milton's poem is pictured as an unpaid adjunct of
the dairy. Duncan's "wee man up on the hill-side" is a permanent and
unspeakable horror of the night. "_What is he doing there?_"[29]

[29] Collins's long _Ode o