Were the devil-fish a giant of its tribe he could not have held out so long.

As it was, the creature could afford to wait, strengthening its grasp, tightening its coils, pulling and pumping at its prey with remorseless certainty.
He was nearly spent.

In a paroxysm of despair he resolved to give way, and with one mad effort seek to bury the axe in the monster's brain.
But ere he could execute this fatal project--for the cuttle would have instantly swept him into the trailing weeds--five revolver shots rang out in quick succession.

Iris had reached the nearest rock.
The third bullet gave the octopus cause to reflect.

It squirted forth a torrent of dark-colored fluid.