I

Early next day Eumaeus and Odysseus were preparing their morning meal, when they heard the sound of footsteps approaching the hut. The hounds pricked up their ears at the sound, and ran fawning round the new-comer, who was evidently well known to them. Odysseus called to Eumaeus, who was busy drawing wine, and said: “Some friend of thine is coming; for the dogs fawn upon him, and bark not.”

Even as he spoke, a tall figure appeared in the open doorway, and his own dear son stood before him. Eumaeus sprang up amazed, and let fall the pitcher into which he had been drawing the wine. Then with a cry of joy he ran to greet his young lord, kissed his hands and his face, and wept over him. Even as a father yearns over his only son, just returned from abroad after a ten years’ absence, so Eumaeus yearned over Telemachus, and hailed him as one returned from the dead. “Thou art come, Telemachus,” he faltered at last, when his emotion suffered him to speak, “thou art come back again, dear as mine own life! Ne’er thought I to see thee again, after thou wast gone to Pylos. Sit thee down, that I may feast mine eyes upon thee; seldom dost thou come this way, but abidest in the house, to watch the wasteful deeds of the wooers.”

Odysseus, in his character of beggar, rose respectfully from his seat, to make room for the young prince, but Telemachus motioned him to resume his place, and sat down himself on a heap of brushwood, on which the swineherd had spread a fleece. While Eumaeus was bringing bread and meat, and filling the cups with wine, Telemachus questioned him as to his mother, and learnt that no change had occurred in her relation to the wooers since he left Ithaca. Breakfast being over, Eumaeus, in answer to his inquiry, told him the story of the supposed stranger. “I have done what I could for him,” he added, when he had repeated what he had heard from Odysseus. “Now I deliver him unto thee, to do with him as thou wilt; all his hopes are in thy grace.”

“What can I do?” answered Telemachus, in perplexity. “Thou knowest that I am not master in my own house, and my mother is torn between two purposes: whether to wait still in patience for her lord’s coming, or to choose a new husband from the noblest of the suitors. Neither she nor I can give protection to such a guest as this. Therefore I will bestow upon him a new cloak and doublet, with sandals for his feet, and arm him with a good sword, and send him whithersoever he chooses to go. Or if thou art willing, thou canst keep him here with thee, and I will send down food and raiment for him, that he may not be a burden to thee and thy men. But I will not allow him to go among the wooers, and suffer ill-treatment which I have no power to prevent.”

Odysseus, who had not seen his son since he was an infant, desired to learn something more of his mind and character; and in order to draw him into further speech he asked, with an air of indignation, who the wooers were, and how it was that he submitted to their violence. “Is the public voice against thee,” he asked, “or art thou at feud with thy brethren, so that they will not help thee? If I were in thy place I would fall upon them singlehanded, for it were better to die once for all than tamely to submit to such outrage.”

“Behold I will tell thee all the truth,” answered Telemachus. “’Tis neither by the consent of the people nor by the ill-will of my brethren, that this evil hath come upon me. But Heaven hath ordained that the honours and the burden of our house should ever rest upon one alone. Laertes, my grandsire, was an only son, and Odysseus was the sole issue of his marriage; and even so I am the only child of Odysseus. Therefore I sit helpless and alone, at the mercy of this ruffian band. But enough of this! We have no hope left, save in the justice of Heaven.” Then he turned to Eumaeus, and said: “Make haste now, go down to the house, and tell Penelope that I have come back safe from Pylos. Let none else hear it, but come back hither at once, when thou hast delivered thy message, and I will wait here until thy return.”

“Shall I not go to Laertes, and tell him also?” asked the swineherd. “Since the day of thy departure he has tasted neither meat nor drink, but sits alone in his sorrow, and will not be comforted.”

“My mother can send a handmaid to inform him,” answered Telemachus. “But as for thee, see that thou return here straightway, and lose no time.”

II

Soon after the departure of Eumaeus, Odysseus and Telemachus were sitting before the door of the hut, each lost in his own thoughts, when their attention was attracted by the strange behaviour of the dogs. These animals, which had been lying basking in the sun, all at once started up with a stifled cry, and ran whining, with every sign of terror, to a distant corner of the courtyard. “What ails the hounds?” said Telemachus, looking up in surprise. But Odysseus was not long before he saw the cause of their alarm: standing at the outer gate was a tall female figure, of majestic countenance, and more than mortal beauty. Telemachus saw her not, but Odysseus instantly knew who she was, and, obeying a gesture of her hand, he rose from his seat and went out through the gate. She led him to a place where they were out of hearing, and then said: “It is time for thee to reveal thyself to thy son, that together ye may contrive destruction for the wooers. When the hour of reckoning comes, I shall be near to aid you.” Thereupon she touched him with her wand, and in a moment he was once more the old Odysseus, still in the full vigour of his manhood, dark and sunburnt, with thick black hair and curling beard. His rags also had been replaced by fair clean raiment; and thus completely transformed he went back to the hut to reveal himself to Telemachus. Athene, having done her part, had forthwith disappeared.

Fear came upon Telemachus, and he marvelled exceedingly, when the real Odysseus appeared before him. “Who art thou,” he asked, “that comest back in a moment thus wondrously transfigured? If thou be a god, as methinks thou art, let me find favour in thy sight, and we will honour thee with rich offerings of gold, and with humble prayers.”

“No god am I,” answered Odysseus, “but thine own dear father, for whose sake thou hast suffered so long with groanings and tears.”

With that he kissed him, and giving vent to the tenderness which he had hitherto restrained he lifted up his voice and wept. But Telemachus could not yet believe that it was indeed his father whom he saw before him. “It cannot be,” he said, drawing back in affright. “It is mere magic and glamour practised against me by some hostile power, to mock my sorrow. No being of flesh and blood could work such a change upon himself. A moment since thou wast an old man in sordid raiment, and now thou art like unto the sons of heaven.”

“Forbear!” said Odysseus, “no more amazement! I am thy father, and no other; if not, thou shalt never see him more. Much have I suffered, and wandered far, and now in the twentieth year I am come back to my native land. This change at which thou marvellest is no work of mine, but was wrought by Athene, daughter of Zeus. The gods can deal with us as they will, both for our glory and for our shame.”

Then Telemachus was convinced, and fell into his father’s arms, and they wept long and sore over each other, for joy and grief are near neighbours. Presently they grew calmer, and Odysseus, in answer to his son’s inquiry, told how the Phaeacians had conveyed him to Ithaca, and of all the treasures which he had brought with him.

“But now we must speak of a sterner task,” said Odysseus, when his story was ended. “Tell me now the number of the wooers, that I may know how many and what manner of men they be, and thereafter contrive how we may best assail them, whether by ourselves or with others to help us.”

“Father,” answered Telemachus, “I knew thy high renown, as a warrior mighty in word and deed. But I fear me greatly that this task is too hard for us; how shall two men prevail against so many? Listen now and I will tell thee their number. From Dulichium are two and fifty, with six men-servants, from Same twenty-four, from Zacynthus twenty, and from Ithaca itself twelve, all proper men and tall. If we twain fall upon such a host, we may find the work of vengeance a bitter morsel, and our bane. It were better, then, to look for some other help.”

“Helpers we shall find, and stout ones too,” said Odysseus. “What sayest thou to Athene and her father, Zeus? Is their aid enough or shall we look for more?”

“Mighty indeed are the champions thou namest,” replied Telemachus, “though throned far remote among the clouds; supreme are they in sovereignty, both on earth and in heaven.”

“Thou sayest well,” answered Odysseus; “and ere long the wooers shall feel their might. Now learn further what thou must do. To-morrow thou shalt go up to the house, and join the company of the wooers, and afterwards the swineherd will bring me thither in the disguise of a beggar old and miserable. If the wooers use me despitefully seek not to prevent it, but let thy heart endure, even though they beat me, or drag me by the feet through the doors. Thou mayest reprove them gently, and bid them cease from their wantonness, but they will not heed thee for their lives are forfeit already. Mark further, and take heed what I say. When the time to strike is come I will give thee a signal, and, forthwith, thou shalt remove all the weapons from the halls, and make excuse to the wooers, saying that thou art bestowing them in a safe place, out of reach of the smoke. Leave only two swords and two shields and two spears, as weapons for ourselves. But above all I charge thee to let none know of my coming neither Laertes, nor Eumaeus, nor Penelope herself. Alone we must work, and watch the temper of the thralls, to see if there be any on our side.”

III

Meanwhile the faithful swineherd made all haste to carry his message to Penelope. Just as he was approaching the house, he met one of the crew of Telemachus’ ship coming up from the harbour on the same errand. So they went together, and while Eumaeus conveyed the tidings privately to Penelope, he who was sent from the ship delivered his report in the hearing of the whole household.

Great was the dismay of the suitors when they learnt that their foul plot had been frustrated. One by one they stole out of the house to a secret place of meeting; and when they were all assembled they began to devise what was next to be done. While they were debating they were joined by Antinous and the crew of the ship which had been lying in wait for Telemachus in the strait. Always the foremost in violent counsels, Antinous breathed out threatenings and slaughter against the young prince. “The boy only escaped us by a miracle,” he said. “All day long we had sentinels on all the heights commanding the sea, and at night we patrolled the waters in our ship. Yet for all our vigilance he has slipped through our hands. But I will not be baffled thus,” he added, stamping with fury. “This wretched boy must die, or we shall never accomplish our purpose. Let us make haste and slay him before he comes back to the town, or he will call a meeting of the people and proclaim to all Ithaca that we sought to slay him, and failed. Then the whole city will rise against us, and we shall have to fly for our lives.”

Then another of the wooers rose up and rebuked Antinous for his bloodthirsty counsels. This man’s name was Amphinomus, and he was the chief among the wooers who came from Dulichium. More than any of the other suitors he found favour with Penelope, for he was a prudent man and a just, and his voice was pleasant to her ear. “Remember,” he said, “that Telemachus is of royal race; and it is a dreadful thing to shed the blood of kings. I will have no hand in such an act, without sure and manifest sign that it is the will of Zeus.”

The speech of Amphinomus was received with a murmur of applause; for most of the wooers were averse to the violent measures proposed by Antinous. So they arose, and returned to the house.

Penelope had heard of their plotting from the herald, Medon, and obeying a sudden impulse she came down from her chamber, and standing in the doorway began to upbraid Antinous for his wicked purpose. “Thou hast the name of a wise and eloquent man,” she said, “but thy fame is better than thy deeds. Wretch, why dost thou lay snares against the life of my son? Hast thou never heard how thy father came to this house, flying from the wrath of the Ithacans, who would have slain him, because he had joined the Taphian pirates in a raid on the Thesprotians, who were our allies? But Odysseus stood between him and their fury, and saved his life. A fair return thou art making for that good service, devouring his substance, paying court to his wife, and compassing the death of his son.”

Antinous sat biting his lips, and made no answer; but Eurymachus, a subtler villain, smooth and specious, but all the more dangerous, spoke for him, and said: “Sage daughter of Icarius, fear nothing for thy son Telemachus, for while I live no man shall offer him violence. By this sword I swear it, and I care not who hears me, the man who seeks to harm him shall die by my hand. I at least have not forgotten the loving-kindness of thy lord, Odysseus, on whose knees I have often sat, and taken food and drink from his hand. Therefore I love Telemachus as a brother, and I swear to thee that none of the wooers shall do him any harm.”