They recalled the immense eyes, the dozens of greedy tentacles, the feigned repose--and how all at once: it embraced, clung, crushed and sucked, all without one wink of its monstrous eyes.

What did it mean?
But Jesus remained silent, He smiled with a frown of kindly raillery on Peter, who was still telling glowing tales about the octopus.

Then one by one the disciples shame-facedly approached Judas, and began a friendly conversation, with him, but--beat a hasty and awkward retreat.
Only John, the son of Zebedee, maintained an obstinate silence; and Thomas had evidently not made up his mind to say anything, but was still weighing the matter.

He kept his gaze attentively fixed on Christ and Judas as they sat together.

And that strange proximity of divine beauty and monstrous ugliness, of a man with a benign look, and of an octopus with immense, motionless, dully greedy eyes, oppressed his mind like an insoluble enigma.
He tensely wrinkled his smooth, upright forehead, and screwed up his eyes, thinking that he would see better so, but only succeeded in imagining that Judas really had eight incessantly moving feet.