You remember, Master, that I told you the story, and you laughed, too.

And you, Judas, are like an octopus--but only on one side." And he laughed loudly, content with his joke.

When Peter spoke, his words resounded so forcibly, that it seemed as though he were driving them in with nails.

When Peter moved, or did anything, he made a noise that could be heard afar, and which called forth a response from the deafest of things: the stone floor rumbled under his feet, the doors shook and rattled, and the very air was convulsed with fear, and roared.
In the clefts of the mountains his voice awoke the inmost echo, and in the morning-time, when they were fishing on the lake, he would roll about on the sleepy, glittering water, and force the first shy sunbeams into smiles.
For this apparently he was loved: when on all other faces there still lay the shadow of night, his powerful head, and bare breast, and freely extended arms were already aglow with the light of dawn.
The words of Peter, evidently approved as they were by the Master, dispersed the oppressive atmosphere.

But some of the disciples, who had been to the seaside and had seen an octopus, were disturbed by the monstrous image so lightly applied to the new disciple.