Ewen of the Little Head

About three hundred years ago, Ewen Maclaine of Lochbuy, in the island of
Mull, having been engaged in a quarrel with a neighbouring chief, a day
was fixed for determining the affair by the sword. Lochbuy, before the
day arrived, consulted a celebrated witch as to the result of the feud.
The witch declared that if Lochbuy's wife should on the morning of that
day give him and his men food unasked, he would be victorious, but if
not, the result would be the reverse. This was a disheartening response
for the unhappy votary, his wife being a noted shrew.

The fatal morning arrived, and the hour for meeting the enemy approached,
but there appeared no symptoms of refreshment for Lochbuy and his men. At
length the unfortunate man was compelled to ask his wife to supply them
with food. She set down before them curds, but without spoons. When the
husband inquired how they were to eat them, she replied they should
assume the bills of hens. The men ate the curds, as well as they could,
with their hands; but Lochbuy himself ate none. After behaving with the
greatest bravery in the bloody conflict which ensued, he fell covered
with wounds, leaving his wife to the execration of the people. She is
still known in that district under the appellation of Corr-dhu, or the
Black Crane.

But the miseries brought on the luckless Lochbuy by his wife did not end
with his life, for he died fasting, and his ghost is frequently seen to
this day riding the very horse on which he was mounted when he was
killed. It was a small, but very neat and active pony, dun or
mouse-coloured, to which the Laird was much attached, and on which he had
ridden for many years before his death. Its appearance is as accurately
described in the island of Mull as any steed is at Newmarket. The prints
of its shoes are discerned by connoisseurs, and the rattling of its curb
is recognised in the darkest night. It is not particular with regard to
roads, for it goes up hill and down dale with equal velocity. Its hard-
fated rider still wears the same green cloak which covered him in his
last battle; and he is particularly distinguished by the small size of
his head, a peculiarity which, we suspect, the learned disciples of
Spurzheim have never yet had the sagacity to discover as indicative of an
extraordinary talent and incomparable perseverance in horsemanship.

It is now above three hundred years since Ewen-a-chin-vig (_Anglice_,
Hugh of the Little Head) fell in the field of honour; but neither the
vigour of the horse nor of the rider is yet diminished. His mournful
duty has always been to attend the dying moments of every member of his
own tribe, and to escort the departed spirit on its long and arduous
journey. He has been seen in the remotest of the