Two thousand feet or so behind our encampment a small rivulet emptied itself into the river; it was as bright and clear as crystal. Probably it was not flowing far from its source, or it would not have been so free from mud, and so wonderfully clear and cold. Just below a little waterfall which the rivulet forms, a huge round stone was lying. At first I thought it might be an old idol which the Lapps formerly worshipped, but in this I was mistaken. When I got down close to it, and had cleared it of the branches and rubbish which covered it, I saw to my amazement that it was—a Millstone. There was no possible mistake about it. It was a real millstone, and so big that I doubt whether, at the present day, a bigger one could be found in any water or wind mill. The hole in the centre was so large that I could easily put my head through it. It was also quite evident that the stone had been in use at some time. But how on earth did it get there? How did it find its way there in the seventieth degree of north latitude, where not a single blade of corn ever grew, to say nothing of ripening? It could not have lain there since the Deluge. Nor could it have been brought there by the ice, like a stray log of wood, for the motion of the ice is from north to south, and surely in olden times people were not using millstones at the north pole, unless it should really turn out to be the case, in accordance with the very newest theory, that Europe has been peopled from the north! It was an enigma, and one which completely puzzled me. A shipwreck? Perhaps, thought I, it was brought there by a shipwreck. But no; the millstone is about a quarter of a mile from the sea. It was clear that somebody must have taken it there, and must have had a mill at that place. But who? ‘Can you tell me anything about the stone, Nilas?’ I asked. ‘Do you know what such a stone is used for?’ ‘No,’ replied Nilas; ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Do you know whether it has been lying here for a long time?’ ‘Yes,’ said Nilas; ‘it has lain here for hundreds of years. I heard that from my old grandfather.’ ‘God bless both you and your old grandfather!’ I said; ‘but who brought the stone here?’ ‘It must have been the monks,’ said Nilas. ‘The monks, do you say? Why, what monks?’ ‘The monks who lived here a long time ago, about whom my grandfather has told me.’ ‘You are my friend, Nilas,’ I said; and I rubbed my hands together for joy. ‘Come, let us get back to the fire, good Nilas, and sit down. You must tell me all you have heard from your grandfather about these monks. You mustn’t forget anything. I shan’t let you go till you have told me all that you know.’ ‘Well,’ thought I to myself, ‘here is the explanation of the names Munkfjord, Warehouse Inlet, Trifon’s River, and others.’