Telemachos was the first to notice the swineherd entering the hall, and he made a sign for him to come and sit by him. Presently Odysseus, too, entered in the guise of a forlorn old beggar, and sat down near the door. Telemachos handed Eumaios a whole loaf of bread and as much meat as he could hold in his two hands, and bade him take it to the beggar. And he told him to tell the poor old man to ask a pittance from every suitor present.
Odysseus took the food, and after thanking Telemachos, prayed to the gods to give him everything good. Then he placed his food in a wallet on the ground, and began to eat, while a minstrel entertained the assembly with sweet music. When the bard ceased his singing, the suitors began a noisy conversation, and having a signal from Athena, Odysseus arose and went from one wooer to another asking alms. Each one gave him something, and asked him who he was and whence he came.
Melanthios, the goatherd, and the favorite of Eurymachos, wishing to make mischief, told them that Eumaios had brought the old man along but did not, himself, know who he was. Antinoös hearing this, said: "Eumaios, foolish swineherd, why didst thou bring that vile beggar here? Are there not beggars enough to eat up the wealth of thy master without him?"
Eumaios answered him most courteously: "Antinoös, though thou art high born thou art not well bred. Thou hast always spoken contemptuously to all the servants of Odysseus, but chiefly to me. Beggars come as they like. No one expects to invite them. Only people of rank are invited to a feast. But I heed not thy abuse so long as I can serve the wise Penelope and her powerful son."
Then Telemachos, seeing that a quarrel was brewing, interposed: "Hold thy peace, Eumaios, make no words with Antinoös. He takes delight in ugly words. Nothing pleases him more than to stir up ill-feeling. Surely Antinoös, thou art a father to me when thou dost bid me turn a stranger into the street and insult him. Pray let the old beggar approach thee and receive a pittance, for thou shouldst not feast on the food belonging to others and never bestow any gifts. All the suitors except thyself have given him a dole."
Antinoös made response: "Telemachos, thou boaster, if each suitor would bestow upon him such a gift as I will make, he would not come here again very soon." With that he seized a footstool and held it up where all could see it. The beggar approached him with a pitiful story of wanderings and hardships. Antinoös spurned him saying: "What demon hath brought this chattering beggar to spoil our pleasure? Get thee gone, or thou wilt soon be much the worse for coming. Thou art a bold and impudent old beggar."
Odysseus withdrew, saying as he went: "How strange it is that so fine a form can conceal so foul a mind. Thou wouldst not give even salt to a suppliant, nor a crust of bread from thine own table, without begrudging it. But thou dost feed gluttonously at the table of an absent chief." Antinoös grew more angry, and rejoined: "Thou insolent beggar, thou shalt not leave this hall unpunished." With that he raised the footstool and struck Odysseus on the shoulder. The chief stood like a rock, not in the least disturbed. But he made menacing motions with his head and retired to the door, where he put down his wallet and lifted up his voice to call down vengeance from the gods.
Antinoös spoke again with insulting words, and one of the guests rebuked him. He was so angry, however, that he did not heed it. Telemachos saw the blow, and could hardly restrain his anger. Word was carried to Penelope that a penniless stranger had been insulted and struck in her halls, and she said to her maids: "I would that Apollo with his bow might strike Antinoös down."
Then she called the swineherd to her apartment and said: "Bring the beggar hither. I should like to speak with him. It may be that he has seen Odysseus, for he seems to have wandered far."
The swineherd took the queen's message to the stranger, but he begged that he might not comply with the request until the suitors had left the house. "I knew Odysseus well," he said, "but I dread these violent men. Therefore, ask Penelope to let me wait until sunset when I can sit by the fire and warm myself, and tell her all that she shall inquire."
The queen thought the beggar's answer was a prudent one, and was satisfied. At sundown the swineherd left the palace to return to his hut. The suitors kept up the revel until late in the evening, and then went home leaving Odysseus in his own palace.
After the revellers had left the palace, Odysseus said to his son: "Now is the time to hide all these weapons where the suitors cannot find them, when their hour of need shall come. If they ask for them tell them that the arms were losing their polish in these smoky rooms, and also that the gods had warned thee to remove them since some dispute might arise in which the wooers heated with wine and anger would attack each other."
Telemachos at once obeyed. He called his old nurse to see that the servants were in their own apartments and the doors of the palace made fast while he removed the arms to an upper room. Then he retired to rest, leaving Odysseus sitting by the hearth in the large dining-hall awaiting the arrival of Penelope. She was not long in coming. Her maids placed a chair, inlaid with silver and ivory, for her near the fire, and threw a large woolly rug before it for her feet.
The queen, stately as a goddess, took her seat there while her maids carried away the dishes and food left by the suitors. They heaped great logs on the fire. Then Melantho, an impudent maid, said to Odysseus: "Art thou here, thou beggar! Begone, or I will take a firebrand and drive thee out!" Odysseus rejoined: "Such is the fate of beggars. They must wander far and take abuse. It is true that I am ragged, but I am not unclean. Once I was rich and had my own palace. I often gave to beggars and I had many servants. But it pleased the gods to make me poor. Thou pert woman, surely the queen, Penelope, never taught thee, and thy bad conduct will not escape the eye of Telemachos."
Penelope saw and heard all this and the high-breeding of the beggar did not escape her keen notice. She turned to the saucy maid and said: "Shame on thee, thou bold creature. Thou dost know full well that this stranger has remained here at my own request, that I might inquire if he knows aught of my husband."
Then the queen asked her matron to spread a rug for the poor old man. Odysseus sat down and Penelope began to question him. "Who art thou, stranger?" she asked. "Where is thy home? Whence hast thou come?" Odysseus answered her: "My gracious queen, I am the son of a king and I come from Crete. I am a man of sorrows and have wandered far. But do not ask me of these things, for I do not wish to lament over unhappy days.
"Strong ties of friendship bind me to Odysseus. Twenty years ago, when he went to Troy, I received him as a guest in my house, because contrary winds and a stormy sea had thrown him upon my island. I led him to my palace and gave him the best of food and wine. Twelve days he remained with me, both himself and his companions. On the thirteenth a favorable wind arose and they went on to Troy."
Odysseus kept on inventing one tale after another, such as might seem probable, and the tears rolled down Penelope's cheeks. Odysseus could have wept, too, when he saw how deep her loyalty and affection were rooted. The lady had no doubt of the genuine character of her guest, but she cautiously strove to prove the truth of his words, so she questioned him yet farther, asking him to describe Odysseus and his comrades—how he looked and what dress he wore.
Odysseus responded truthfully: "He wore a cloak of purple wool, with two clasps of gold, hand-wrought. The pattern showed a hound struggling with a spotted fawn, intent to kill it. Besides this he had on a delicate tunic of shining cloth, spun, doubtless, by his queen, for the women gazed at it in wonder.
"He was accompanied by a herald named Eurybates, a hunchback with a dark complexion, but Odysseus seemed to value him above all the rest, for he was a clever and a faithful man."
When Odysseus had finished speaking, Penelope exclaimed, with a burst of passionate grief: "Stranger, I was moved to pity when I first saw thee in my halls, but thou shalt be held as an honored guest from this time forward. Thou hast spoken truly of the garments, for I shaped the folds in them myself and put on the clasps. Alas! I shall never see him again. It was a cruel fate that took him from me."
Odysseus was deeply moved, and tried to speak consoling words. "Weep not," he said, "for grief will wear away thy beauty and thy health. Odysseus lives and will return. I met him lately on his homeward way, laden with wealth which he had gathered in the country of the Thesprotians.
"He will come alone, for his comrades were destroyed off the island of Trinacria, for they had slain the oxen of the Sun. He would have arrived here before me, only that he stopped to consult an oracle whether to come secretly or not. He is safe and will not long remain away from thee. Here I take the great oath that Odysseus will come within a month."
The wise queen answered him: "I would that thy words might prove true, O stranger, but the thought is deep in my heart that Odysseus is no more. My maidens, lead this guest to the bath and spread a couch for him where he can rest quietly, and to-morrow he shall share the morning meal with Telemachos."
Then said Odysseus to her: "Fair queen, I care not for fine covers and soft beds. Wilt thou permit me to lie down on the floor near the fire, as I am used to do? I care not for the bath, either, unless there is some old servant who knows how to give a foot-bath to aged feet."
Penelope admired the prudence of the poor old beggar, and called Eurycleia, bidding her to bathe the stranger's feet as carefully as if they were the feet of her master. The nurse filled a bright brass basin with warm water and knelt down to execute the command of her royal mistress, saying: "My poor Odysseus! My heart is sore for him. Who knows but he may be wandering like thee, weary and footsore! Perhaps he is an object of ridicule among serving-women who will not suffer him to come near the bath.
"Stranger, I will wash thy feet for the sake of my absent master, and to please that gracious queen who has commanded me to do so; but most of all because thou art in need of it through suffering. Surely I never saw anyone who bore so close a resemblance to my lord as thou."
Odysseus replied: "It has often been said that I look like Odysseus by those who knew us both, O aged dame." Then he turned his feet away from the light, for fear that Eurycleia would recognize a scar and discover who he was. But it was in vain, for as soon as she passed her hand over it she knew it. It was a scar that came where a wild boar had once torn the flesh when Odysseus was hunting on Parnassos.
The old servant was so overcome with joy that she laughed and cried at the same time. She let his foot fall against the basin, which was upset with a loud clang, while the water was spilled over the floor. She laid her hand on Odysseus' beard, and said in a voice trembling with emotion: "Dear son, thou art Odysseus. I knew thee the moment that I touched the scar."
Then Eurycleia turned to tell Penelope that her lord had come, for the queen had not seen the upsetting of the basin. But Odysseus laid his finger on the old servant's lips, and with his left hand drew her closer and said: "Be silent. Let no one know that I have come, for I must slay the suitors by stratagem. If they know that I am here they will prevent me and destroy us all."
The loyal handmaid arose to bring another basin of water. She bathed his feet and anointed them. And he moved to the fire and took his seat, while he pulled his ragged garments over the scar to hide it, lest it might betray him.
When Odysseus was again seated by the hearth, Penelope began to speak to him further: "Stranger, one more question I must ask thee, and then I will leave thee, for the hour of sleep is near. All day long I keep at my tasks to try to forget my grief, for the gods have visited me with sore misfortunes. I teach my maids to spin and weave and care for the palace. But when night comes strange dreams flit through my mind, and new sorrows spring up in my heart.
"There are from day to day assembled in my home all the young men of the best families of Ithaca and the neighboring isles, who insist that I shall choose one of them for a husband. But as I am not willing to comply, they remain in my house and destroy my property. I am not able to drive them out, and do not know how to help myself. Listen to a dream I had the other night. Perhaps thou canst explain it to me.
"I dreamt that there was a flock of twenty geese in my court-yard, and they picked corn out of the water and ate greedily. Suddenly an eagle swooped down upon them from above and broke their necks and tore them to pieces. Then he flew off, leaving them scattered about the yard. I bitterly bewailed the loss of my geese, and so did my maids. After awhile the eagle came back and, perching on the roof, said to me: 'Take courage, Penelope, this is no dream. The geese are the wooers, but I, the eagle, am thy husband, and I have come to kill those impudent robbers that vex thee.'"
Odysseus answered her: "The eagle gave the right explanation, O lady. The dream could not have had any other meaning. Odysseus will come and slay the wooers, and not one shall escape him."
"Dreams do not always come to pass," rejoined Penelope, "but I heartily wish that this might be fulfilled. Be patient a little longer, for I have one thing more to say. To-morrow is a decisive day, for it may be the one that drives me from the palace. I shall propose a contest for my hand. Twenty years ago Odysseus set up twelve axes, one behind the other, in the court. Through the rings of the handles he shot an arrow, although he stood at a great distance. I will challenge the suitors to take the same bow and send the arrow through the rings as Odysseus did. He who succeeds shall lead me forth a bride, to his own palace."
Odysseus responded: "Do not let the contest be put off. Odysseus will be at hand a long time before any of the suitors can bend his bow."
"Thy words, O stranger, are comforting," said Penelope. "I could sit and listen to thee all night. But as thou art in need of rest, I will retire to my apartment, and the maids shall spread rugs before the fire for thee." Penelope, having said this, went up to her room, her maids following her, and she wept, thinking of her royal lord, until Athena closed her eyes in sleep.
Odysseus was lying on his bed, but he could not sleep, for he was thinking how he might destroy the suitors. Suddenly Athena appeared to him, and said: "Odysseus, why dost thou lie awake? Thou art in thine own house and near thy wife and child." "All this is true, O goddess," answered Odysseus. "But I am only one and the suitors are many. How shall I, single-handed, meet this multitude of men?"
"Sleep in peace, Odysseus," returned Athena. "To lie awake saps the life and strength of men. The time has come when all thy sufferings shall end. The gods protect thee and they are stronger than armed warriors." Thus spoke the goddess, and, closing his eyelids with sweet slumber, she flew up to Olympos.
While Odysseus was sleeping, his wife had waked, and, sitting on her bed, addressed a prayer to Artemis: "Rather let me die, O goddess, than become the wife of any other man than Odysseus. The very thought vexes me day and night. Just now I had a dream. I seemed to see Odysseus just as he was when he started out for Troy. I was so glad that I could not believe that it was not a reality."
She prayed aloud, and soon daylight appeared. Odysseus heard the voice and it filled his heart with anxiety. He arose and hastily placed the rugs on which he had slept on a bench in the palace. Then he went out into the open air. Telemachos had risen also, and he went forth to the market-place. Eurycleia called the servants together and ordered them to be quick about their work, for a festival was to be celebrated that day and the wooers would come early.
There was a busy time. The menials obeyed, some bringing water, some sweeping the floors, others polishing the benches and covering them with royal tapestries. The servants of the suitors came also and cut wood for the fires. Eumaios arrived early, driving three fat hogs. He saluted Odysseus and asked him if he were well treated by the suitors, or if they continued to scoff at him. Odysseus answered him: "May the gods punish the ruthless men who perpetrate such wrongs in a stranger's home." While they were talking together the goatherd joined him, and repeated the sneers and abuse of the preceding day. Odysseus took no notice of it, except to shake his head as one who plans direful things.
The master herdsman now came along with a fat heifer and choice goats for the day's banquet. Offering his hand to Odysseus, he exclaimed: "Hail to thee, stranger! A long and happy life be thine! Methinks my master must be clothed in rags and wandering like thee. Thou dost bring his image to my mind. I hope he may return and drive these suitors out of his palace." "Be sure that he will come, herdsman; thou wilt see him with thine own eyes, when he slays the ruthless suitors, and then thou wilt know who is lord of the palace," replied Odysseus.
The suitors were talking apart from the rest and conspiring to take the life of Telemachos, when an eagle wheeled over their heads, tearing a timid dove. With hearts foreboding ill at this omen, they went into the hall to begin the banquet, while the herdsman went his way first saying, "When Odysseus comes, call on me, and I will show how strong my arm is to deal a blow at his enemies."
The suitors had now arrived in the great banquet-hall and taken their places at the tables. The servants brought bread and meat and placed it before them, while Melanthios filled their goblets with wine. Telemachos placed Odysseus near the door, and gave him an ample supply of food, saying: "Eat and drink, stranger, without fear. None of the wooers shall assail thee, for I will stand guard."
One of the suitors, an evil-minded man with a rich father, said to his companions: "My friends, this stranger enjoys his meal greatly. It does not become any one of us to begrudge good things to the guests of Telemachos. I, too, wish to give him a present, which he in turn may bestow on some other beggar." With that he seized an ox's foot and hurled it at Odysseus.
Odysseus dodged it by holding down his head. Telemachos grew angry and rebuked the suitor in these words: "Ktesippos, thou hast escaped death. It is well that this stranger avoided thy blow, for if thou hadst struck him, my sharp spear would have pinned thee to the wall, and thy father would have prepared a burial instead of a wedding for thee."
Dreadful forebodings of woe began to fill the hearts of the suitors. Their speech became rambling and they laughed insanely. They ate and drank like men deranged.
Penelope now entered the great hall and took her seat upon a magnificent throne, right in front of the suitors. She heard the maudlin laughter and saw the gluttonous feasting as the revel ran high. Then Athena came and moved her mind to immediate action, and she went up to the farthest chamber with her maids, where the arms of Odysseus were stored. His bow and deadly arrows, so long unused, were there, with rich treasures and perfumed garments. She wept as she took the bow from its case and went out, followed by the servants, who carried down costly prizes, such as Odysseus gave when festivals with games were held in his halls.
She took her place, standing before the suitors, and addressed them: "Ye noble suitors, listen to my words. Cease to eat and drink and come to the contest. Too long have ye lived at my table, giving as an excuse that ye would win me as a bride. The suitor who can bend this bow and send this arrow through these twelve axes shall claim me as his wife, and I will follow him to his home."
Penelope called to the swineherd and the herdsmen to place the rings and carry the bow to the suitors. Each in turn tried to do so, but were overcome with grief at seeing their master's weapons, and laid them down.
Antinoös lifted up his voice and chid them: "Ye foolish peasants, must your eyes flow with tears at this feast? Bring the bow or leave the palace. Methinks we shall have hard work to bend this bow, for none of us have such sinews as had Odysseus."
Then Telemachos took up the bow and laughed. "I must have lost my wits," he said, "for I am glad that this contest will take place. There is not such another woman in Greece as my stately mother. Make no delay then. I long to see the man who can bend the bow. I would that I might bend it myself and win the right to keep her in her own home. Then I should be spared the grief of losing her."
Telemachos took off his cloak and laid his sword aside. He placed the axes in a row and took the bow and made three attempts to bend it, but did not succeed. He would have accomplished the feat if he had made one more effort, but Odysseus made a sign to him to desist, so he set the bow against the wall and went back to his seat.
The first suitor to make the trial had never been pleased with the insolence of the wooers, and had great foresight and was called their seer. His hands were soft and delicate. He could not bend the bow, but he predicted that it would be the instrument to bring death to the whole crew.
Antinoös reproached him for his prophecies, and ordered Melanthios to light a fire and bring a slice of fat, that the bow might be warmed and oiled to make it pliable. They warmed it and rubbed it with oil, and tried to bend it. One after another, each in turn, they made trials, but all in vain.
In the meantime Odysseus went to the swineherd and the master of the herds, who had displayed such loyalty. He said to them: "My friends, what if Odysseus should come; would you take part with him, or join the crowd of suitors? Speak truly." The two men answered, appealing to the gods to bear witness, that they would stand by their master to the end.
"Behold," said Odysseus, "I am the master that you love. I have come to my own land after twenty years of suffering, and among all my servants I hear none pray for my return save you two. And now that you may surely recognize me I will show you the scar made by a boar on Parnassos." He raised his ragged tunic for a moment and they looked at the scar. They recognized their long-lost master, and threw their arms around him and wept, and kissed his hands and feet.
Odysseus begged them to desist, lest the suitors should notice it and discover him. And he instructed them to bring the bow to him and place it in his hands, after all the wooers had failed to bend it. And he told them to shut and lock the doors, so that the maid-servants could not hear the groans of the dying men, for they might run out and warn the town.
Eurymachos and Antinoös were the last to make trial of the bow. Eurymachos sat before the fire and warmed it on both sides, but he could not bend it. He was vexed beyond measure, and said: "It is not that I care for Penelope, for there are other women that would suit me just as well, but if we are weaker than Odysseus our sons will hear of it in future times and be ashamed of us."
Antinoös took up the word: "Eurymachos," he said, "this is a day held sacred to Apollo, god of the silver bow. He should have no rival. Let the bow alone, lest the god be angry and leave the axes standing in a row. No one will dare to touch them. Let Melanthios bring goats, and we will offer up sacrifices to the god and invite his aid. Then we shall have strength to win in this struggle."
The suitors approved the words of Antinoös. The heralds filled their cups with wine, and the wise Odysseus waited until they had drunk to their hearts' content.
Then he lifted up his voice and said: "Hear me, ye suitors of Penelope, while I advise that you defer this trial of your strength until another day. Apollo will then bestow the power on one of you to triumph over the others. Let me practise with the bow to-day, to see if I have any of my youthful strength, or if I have lost it through suffering and want."
The suitors were moved with desperate fear and anger. "Thou senseless beggar," said Antinoös, "is it not enough that we allow thee to sit at a banquet with the proudest men alive? Thou art drunk and thy mind wanders. What would come to thee if thou shouldst bend this bow? Verily we would sell thee for a slave to the great enemy of men."
Then said Penelope: "Indeed, Antinoös, it is not large-minded to deny this poor old man the pleasure of trying the bow.
"Dost thou think I would go forth as the wife of a beggar? Nay, the stranger has no hope of that. Do not let your minds be teased with such thoughts."
Eurymachos, the leading suitor, rejoined: "Our care is not that thou wilt wed this man. But we fear the ridicule of the people, who will say, 'These are great men, indeed, who are outdone in strength and skill by a miserable old beggar.' It would be a never-ending shame to us."
"Nay, Eurymachos," replied Penelope, "real shame comes on him who robs a good man and brings trouble to his family. This beggar claims to be of good blood, and his arm is sinewy. Let him try the bow. I make a solemn promise that if Apollo grant him the honor of bending the bow, I shall do no less than bestow upon him a tunic and a cloak, and sandals, and I will give him a sword with which he can defend himself. Then he can go where he likes."
Telemachos saw that the great crisis was at hand. "Mother," he said, "it rests with me to give the bow or withhold it. Such matters belong to men, and in this palace the authority is mine. Take thy maids, then, and retire to thy apartments, and ply the tasks most suitable to women."
The queen recognized her son's wisdom, and withdrew with her maids to the upper rooms. There she wept for the beloved monarch, her absent lord, until Athena sent a soothing sleep to comfort her.
In the meanwhile the swineherd took up the bow and undertook to carry it to Odysseus. The suitors shouted their disapproval, and he became confused and set it down. Telemachos called out above the clamor and gave command for him to carry it along. The suitors laughed to hear the young man's voice ring out like a trumpet and drown all other noises. Odysseus took the bow and turned it from side to side, examining it in every part. Telemachos, in a low tone, bade Eurycleia make fast all the doors, and the master herdsman tied the gates of the outer court with a ship's cable.
The suitors grew uneasy, and one of them said to another: "See the beggar, how he turns the bow this way and that! He would have us think that he is an expert in the use of bows." Odysseus stretched the cord and made it fast from end to end. He put it to his ear to try its tenseness as a minstrel tunes his harp. It sang like a bird. With perfect ease he drew the cord and let the arrow fly. It screamed like a swallow and went through every ring from the first one to the last. The suitors turned pale. Zeus sent a loud thunder-clap and Odysseus rejoiced at the omen. He sprang to the threshold with his bow in hand and a quiver full of arrows at his side, and shouted: "The contest is ended. Now I will choose another target."
Antinoös had just put a golden goblet to his lips, and was about to drink the delicious wine. An arrow pierced his throat. He dropped the cup and fell to the ground, and as he fell his feet struck the table. The bread and meat were scattered in every direction over the floor. The suitors sprang to their feet and looked for the weapons on the walls. The spears were gone, and the lances and all the armor.
Even yet they were blind to the fact that the stranger had slain Antinoös purposely. They poured out threats. "Fool," they said, "what art thou doing? How couldst thou be so careless! Thou hast slain the noblest man in Ithaca. Dogs and vultures shall devour thee. Never again shalt thou be allowed a trial with the bow."
"Dogs," cried Odysseus, "ye little thought your chief would ever return from Troy, and therefore ye have robbed me of my wealth and vexed my wife with offers of marriage, regardless of the laws of god and man. But now the hour of your death has come and your doom is certain."
The suitors trembled and looked for some open door through which to fly for safety. Only Eurymachos took courage to make a defence. "If thou art indeed Odysseus, thou hast good cause to complain of wrongs," he said. "But thou hast slain the leader, Antinoös, who prompted us to do these wrongs. He had no thought of love for thy wife. He wanted to gain thy land and rule over thy people. Spare the rest of us and we will make ample restitution."
A dreadful frown spread over Odysseus' face, and he replied: "Eurymachos, I will not take thy wealth nor will I spare thy life. Now choose between the two, either to fight or fly from death. Be sure no suitor shall escape my vengeance."
The suitors all grew faint with fear. Eurymachos cried out to them: "Ye Ithacans, this man will stand there at the door and shoot us all down one by one. Out with your swords! Hold up the tables for shields, and rush upon him, all of you, at once. Drive him out of the gates, and then hurry through the city and give a general alarm."
With a fearful shout Eurymachos then drew his own sword and sprang toward Odysseus. A deadly arrow from the famous bow met him and he fell upon the table, upsetting it, and he went spinning round with it on the paved floor, while the food and cup of wine were scattered all about. His head struck upon a stone and his feet against a chair. Death closed his eyes.
Another suitor drew his sword and rushed toward Odysseus. Telemachos met him with a lance and slew him. Then Telemachos sprang to his father's side and said: "My father, I will bring thee javelins and a shield, and I will arm myself and the swineherd and the master herdsmen." "Make haste, my son," responded Odysseus, "for I have but few arrows left."
Telemachos hastened to the room where the arms had been stored and clothed himself in brass. His loyal herdsmen also put on splendid armor, and they hastened back to Odysseus with a complete outfit for him. The chief had used up his arrows, and now he dressed himself in armor and took the lances. Just then he perceived that the suitors had by some means been supplied with armor also. He called to Telemachos, who had left the door ajar leading to the apartment where the arms had been placed for safety.
Melanthios, the goatherd, had sneaked in and was slyly bringing shields and helmets down to them. Telemachos saw him, and gave orders to the herdsmen to lock the doors of the armory and secure the spy. They hastened to the armory and found Melanthios, who had come back for a second load. They cast him on the floor and tied his arms down so that he could not move them. Then they took a rope and made two loops in it and swung him safely to the timbers in the roof, saying: "Melanthios, thou hast a soft bed, and it is where thou canst keep watch. In the morning thou canst drive thy goats to the suitors' banquet." They locked the doors and left him there and took their places at Odysseus' side.
The combat grew more stubborn. Athena, in the guise of Mentor, stood near Odysseus and cheered him on. "Woe unto thee, Mentor, if thou dost dare to help Odysseus," cried one of the suitors. "We will not spare thee when we have slain him. More yet, we will drive thy wife and children out of Ithaca and keep thy wealth." The goddess, in great anger at this audacity, turned toward Odysseus and said: "Thou art not so swift and terrible in fighting, O Chieftain, as thou wert before the walls of Troy."
Athena said this to spur Odysseus on, but she did not remain at his side. She changed herself into a swallow and perched upon a rafter of the great hall, to put his prowess to a greater test. When she had gone, the suitors grew braver and threw their spears at Odysseus thick and fast. But their aim was uncertain, and they struck pillars and panels and the wall, for the goddess turned their shafts aside.
Odysseus and Telemachos and their faithful servants hurled their lances, and the weapons always hit the mark. The cowherd struck Ktesippos in the breast and exclaimed, as the suitor fell: "Ktesippos, I give thee this spear in exchange for the ox's foot which thou didst throw at Odysseus as a gift when he asked alms of thee."
Four of the wooers fell to the ground at once and the remainder retreated to the farthest corner of the hall. Still they rallied for another onset. Odysseus rushed in upon them and cut them down right and left, while Athena from above shook her fearful ægis. The surviving wooers were stricken with terror and ran about like a herd of oxen chased by a swarm of gadflies. Only the minstrel Phemios and the herald Medon were spared. Both of them had served the suitors most unwillingly and had secretly advised with Telemachos.
Odysseus searched up and down the hall to see if any suitor could be found alive. As fishes lie upon the beach when they have been poured out from the nets upon the sand, so lay the multitude of wooers. Not one survived.
Then Odysseus called Eurycleia and bade her summon all of the impudent and unfaithful servants who had taken sides with the suitors. They came into the hall and with loud laments took up the slain and carried them out as they were commanded, and placed them in a walled court. Then they cleaned the hall with water and sponges, and polished the wood and set everything in order.
When this was done, they were driven like a flock of birds into a narrow place outside and hung to a beam to die wretchedly. Melanthios also was brought down from the armory and cast among the dogs to die.
The palace now was purged with the smoke of sulphur, and the air was purified with incense. The loyal servants crowded about their chieftain and welcomed him with glad salutations. They kissed his hands and face, and wept and laughed for joy. Odysseus was deeply moved and sobbed aloud.
Eurycleia, with an exulting heart, now hurried up the lofty stairs and stood by the queen in her royal chamber. "Penelope," she cried, "my child, Odysseus has come. Thy husband is here, and he has slain the whole crew of insolent suitors who squandered his riches and scoffed at his son." Prudent Penelope answered her: "Eurycleia, thou art mad. The gods have taken thy wits away. Do not mock me with such idle tales. If any other maid had come on such an errand and waked me from sleep, I would have dismissed her with anger."
"Nay, dear child, I do not mock thee; Odysseus has come and is now sitting by the hearth. The beggar whom they scoffed at in the hall was Odysseus. Telemachos knew it, but dared not tell thee until the suitors should be slain."
Penelope rose from her couch and seized Eurycleia by the hands.
"Tell me, dear nurse," she said, "tell me truly, if in fact my husband has returned, how was it possible that he alone could destroy such a multitude of haughty men!" "I did not see it," responded the old nurse, "but I heard the groans of the dying men as I sat with the other maids in our own rooms. The doors were locked to bar us from the hall. When Telemachos called me, I found Odysseus surrounded by the slain. When we had washed the hall and purged it with smoke and purified the air with incense, thy husband ordered me to call thee. Follow me now, my child, that your heart may be gladdened after it has been oppressed so long with sorrows."
Penelope replied again: "Nay, I cannot believe it. The gods may have slain the suitors under the guise of Odysseus, but he has perished far away from home and never will return."
"My daughter," said the aged nurse, "what words are these? I recognized Odysseus myself by the well-known scar made by the boar's tusk. I turned to tell thee, but he laid his finger on my lips and said: 'Be silent. Let no one know that I am here until the suitors all are slain, or else they will destroy me.' Now follow me. I pledge my life that I speak the truth."
Penelope descended from her royal bower uncertain how to meet her lord. She crossed the threshold and sat down at the hearth, opposite Odysseus, who was seated beside a stately column in the blazing light of the fire. He did not lift his eyes to look at his wife, but waited for her to make the way open for him to speak. Penelope was speechless. She looked at her husband and seemed sometimes to recognize him, and then the resemblance faded out and he did not seem at all like Odysseus.
Telemachos became impatient and spoke to her, chiding her. "Mother," he said, "thou art hard-hearted and unkind. Any other woman would extend a hearty welcome to her husband after he had suffered so many years of hardship, wandering in foreign lands. Take thy place at my father's side and question him. Verily thy heart is harder than a stone." "My son," answered Penelope, "I seem to have lost the power to speak. I am dazed and cannot even command myself to look at him. If this is indeed Odysseus we soon shall know each other, for there are secrets known to us two only."
Odysseus smiled and said: "My son, be patient, and let thy mother put me to the test. She does not know me in these rags, but she will soon be convinced that I am Odysseus. It is more important now to prevent the news that the suitors have been slain from spreading. They have friends all over the city. Who knows but what they may rise up against us. I deem it best that we bathe and put on fresh garments, and let the servants do the same.
"And let the minstrel bring his lyre and strike up such music as prompts the dance, so that those living near us may report that a wedding is being celebrated. Then we may safely venture forth and see what is to be done."
Thus spoke the monarch, and his commands were gladly obeyed. Telemachos and the servants went their way to the baths and arrayed themselves in splendid clothing. The bard took his harp and woke the pleasing strains, and the palace halls resounded with mirth and dancing.
After awhile those outside were heard to say: "Shame on Penelope! She weds a second time, and does not even know whether her absent lord is dead or living. She might have waited for him to return."
Meantime Odysseus followed a servant to the bath, and when he had been bathed and anointed he put on garments suitable for a king. Athena gave him a more majestic appearance, and caused his hair to fall in heavy curls, like the petals of the hyacinth. When he came back to the great hall and stood before the queen, he looked like an immortal.
"Lady," he said, "the gods have given thee a stubborn heart. Any other woman would have given a glad welcome to her husband after he had been absent twenty years." To this Penelope responded: "Not so; I have no pride nor a cold heart. But I should be unworthy of my lord if I accepted a stranger without putting him to the proof. I remember well when thou didst go to Troy. Thou didst command Eurycleia to carry thy massive bed out into the open air and cover it with fleeces."
"Nay, woman, no living man could perform such a feat. I built that massive frame myself. It was a tall olive-tree that grew within one of the courts. Round it I built a royal bower, and, cutting off the great limbs of the tree, shaped them and fastened them to the trunk. In this wise I built the frame, and no one could move it without dragging the tree out by the roots. That is a secret known only to thee and me."
Penelope had put the final test, and knew that this was surely Odysseus. She rose from where she sat and ran to him and threw her arms about his neck and kissed his brow. "Odysseus, do not be angry with me," she said. "Many are they who have tried to practise deception upon me. Thou hast made me believe in thee." These words pierced Odysseus' heart and brought him the relief of tears. He pressed his faithful wife to his bosom again and again.