“This is it. In 1861, to the north-east of Teneriffe, very nearly in the same latitude we are in now, the crew of the despatch-boat Alector perceived a monstrous cuttlefish swimming in the waters. Captain Bouguer went near to the animal, and attacked it with harpoon and guns, without much success, for balls and harpoons glided over the soft flesh. After several fruitless attempts the crew tried to pass a slip-knot round the body of the mollusc. The noose slipped as far as the tail fins and there stopped. They tried then to haul it on board, but its weight was so considerable that the tightness of the cord separated the tail from the body, and, deprived of this ornament, he disappeared under the water.” “Indeed! is that a fact?” “An indisputable fact, my good Ned. They proposed to name this poulp ‘Bouguer’s cuttlefish.’” “What length was it?” asked the Canadian. “Did it not measure about six yards?” said Conseil, who, posted at the window, was examining again the irregular windings of the cliff. “Precisely,” I replied. “Its head,” rejoined Conseil, “was it not crowned with eight tentacles, that beat the water like a nest of serpents?” “Precisely.” “Had not its eyes, placed at the back of its head, considerable development?” “Yes, Conseil.” “And was not its mouth like a parrot’s beak?” “Exactly, Conseil.” “Very well! no offence to master,” he replied, quietly; “if this is not Bouguer’s cuttlefish, it is, at least, one of its brothers.” I looked at Conseil. Ned Land hurried to the window. “What a horrible beast!” he cried.