brought us above our starting point. I think, therefore, that if we
follow the coast we shall once more find Port Gretchen."

"In that case," cried my uncle, "it is useless to continue our
exploration. The very best thing we can do is to make our way back to
the raft. Are you quite sure, Harry, that you are not mistaken?"

"It is difficult," was my reply, "to come to any decision, for all these
rocks are exactly alike. There is no marked difference between them. At
the same time, the impression on my mind is that I recognize the
promontory at the foot of which our worthy Hans constructed the raft. We
are, I am nearly convinced, near the little port: if this be not it," I
added, carefully examining a creek which appeared singularly familiar to
my mind.

"My dear Harry--if this were the case, we should find traces of our own
footsteps, some signs of our passage; and I can really see nothing to
indicate our having passed this way."

"But I see something," I cried, in an impetuous tone of voice, as I
rushed forward and eagerly picked up something which shone in the sand
under my feet.

"What is it?" cried the astonished and bewildered Professor.

"This," was my reply.

And I handed to my startled relative a rusty dagger, of singular shape.

"What made you bring with you so useless a weapon?" he exclaimed. "It
was needlessly hampering yourself."

"I bring it? It is quite new to me. I never saw it before--are you sure
it is not out of your collection?"

"Not that I know of," said the Professor, puzzled. "I have no
recollection of the circumstance. It was never my property."

"This is very extraordinary," I said, musing over the novel and singular
incident.

"Not at all. There is a very simple explanation, Harry. The Icelanders
are known to keep up the use of these antiquated weapons, and this must
have belonged to Hans, who has let it fall without knowing it."

I shook my head. That dagger had never been in the possession of the
pacific and taciturn Hans. I knew him and his habits too well.

"Then what can it be--unless it be the weapon of some antediluvian
warrior," I continued, "of some living man, a contemporary of that
mighty shepherd from whom we have just escaped? But no--mystery upon
mystery--this is no weapon of the stony epoch, nor even of the bronze
period. It is made of excellent steel--"

Ere I could finish my sentence, my uncle stopped me short from entering
upon a whole train of theories, and