The cup is made of dark wood, and is finely adorned with silver work. It is dated 1493, and contains a Latin inscription. The Fairy Tower in Dunvegan Castle contains the room in which Dr. Johnson and Sir Walter Scott slept during their respective visits to the castle. The burly lexicographer would have little wind left for argument after he had toiled up the steep and narrow spiral stairway leading to the room. Formerly, so the smiling chief told me, the young lady chosen by the Macleod to be his wife, had to pass a night alone in this haunted chamber, in order that the fairies might have an opportunity of seeing her, and formally approving the choice. MISCELLANEOUS TERRORS. He who investigates Celtic demonology will hear a good deal about a gruesome and insidious animal called the _Water Horse_. This fell beast, though able at need to transform itself into the shape of a human being, is normally like a horse, though much bulkier and fiercer. Its usual abode is in the deep lochs, but it may occasionally be seen, with wreck or sea-weed clinging to its hoof or mane, feeding on the hill-side among earthly horses. The detestable feature about the brute is its fondness for human beings. There is no hope for any man, woman, or child, who gets upon its back: at a furious gallop, the animal bounds off by the nearest road to the 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.