Chapter II

When evening came on, the wooers ordered three braziers to be set up in the hall, to give them light as they sat at their pastimes. The braziers were fed with dry chips of pine-wood, and the maid-servants relieved each other from time to time in the duty of keeping up the fires. Presently Odysseus drew near to the handmaids, and said: "Go ye and attend the queen in her chamber, I will serve the fires, and give light to the company. Yea, though they sit here all night they shall not tire me out, for I am a much-enduring man."

The women laughed, and glanced at one another; and one of them, whose name was Melantho, spoke bitterly to Odysseus, and reviled him, saying: "Thou wretched old man, why goest thou not to find a bed in the smithy, or wherever else thou canst, instead of loitering here, and vexing us with thy prate? Either thou hast drunk a cup too much, or else thou art stricken in thy wits. Get thee gone, lest a stronger than Irus lay his hand upon thee and break thy bones."

"Now will I go straightway to Telemachus," answered Odysseus fiercely, "yonder where he sits, and tell him what thou sayest, thou vixen, that he may hew thee in pieces on the spot."

So menacing were his looks and his tones that the women fled quaking from the hall and left him to tend the fires. So there he stood in view of the whole company, to their eyes a poor outcast, intent on his menial task; but thoughts other than of the fires filled his heart.

As he stooped over one of the braziers and stirred the fuel into a blaze, Eurymachus noticed the red gleam which was reflected from the smooth, bald crown of the supposed beggar. "Look!" he cried, laughing and pointing at Odysseus, "surely this man is a favourite of heaven; for see how the light shines like a crown of glory on his hairless pate!"

Then he called to Odysseus, and said: "How sayest thou, friend, wilt thou be my thrall, and work on my farm among the hills for a fixed wage? Thy business would be to repair the stone fences and work on the plantation; thou wouldst have a whole coat to thy back, and shoes to thy feet, and thy penny fee, and bread to eat all the year round. But I can read thine answer in thy face: thou wouldst rather crouch and whine for bread than do aught useful to earn thy living."

"Eurymachus," answered Odysseus firmly, "I would that I could prove my manhood against thine in any trial of strength and endurance. Let it be a match of mowing, in a rich meadow-land, on the longest day in spring, and let us ply the scythe together, fasting, from dawn till eve. Or give me a stout pair of oxen, mighty beasts, equal in strength, and both well filled with fodder, and set me to plough a field of four acres, of rich, deep soil--then wouldst thou see if I could drive a straight furrow. Or stand by my side on the perilous edge of battle, with equal arms, and try whether I would flinch sooner than thou. A great man and a mighty thou seemest to thyself, having never learnt what true manhood is. Poor windy braggart, if Odysseus set foot in this house again, the doors would seem too narrow to thee in thy haste to escape."

"Thou saucy knave!" cried Eurymachus, incensed by this daring speech, "I will teach thee respect for thy betters"; and seizing a footstool he prepared to hurl it at the offender's head. But Odysseus sprang aside and ran to Amphinomus for protection; the heavy missile flew hurtling through the air, and struck one of the servants, who was just crossing the room, on the arm. Down went the man with a cry of pain, and the wooers raised an uproar throughout the hall. "A murrain on this begging loon!" exclaimed one. "Why came he hither to bring strife among us?"

"Ye are mad, my masters!" said Telemachus, raising his voice; "verily ye are flown with insolence and wine.[1] Ye had better go home and sleep off your liquor before worse comes of it."

[Footnote 1: Milton, "Paradise Lost," i. 502.]

The wooers were indeed in a dangerous mood, and they began to finger their weapons, and utter fierce threats against Telemachus. But Amphinomus interposed, and by exerting all his influence induced them to forgo their murderous purpose and disperse quietly to their homes.

Odysseus and Penelope

As soon as the house was quiet, Telemachus, obeying a sign from his father, prepared to convey the weapons which hung about the hall to an inner chamber, out of the reach of the wooers. First he ordered Eurycleia to keep the women out of the way, and having barred the doors leading to the inner apartments, he took down helmet and spear and shield from the walls, and carried them, with his father's help, to the upper room. When this important task was performed he withdrew for the night, and Odysseus was left alone in the hall to await the coming of Penelope.

Presently the doors were opened, and by the flickering light of the braziers Odysseus, for the first time after twenty years, saw the face of his wife. Lovely indeed she seemed in his eyes, not less than when he wedded her in her maiden bloom. Her handmaids brought a chair of silver and ivory, a work of most rare device, and set it by the fire with a soft fleece upon it. Penelope took the seat prepared for her and gazed curiously at the stranger, who sat crouched in the shadow of a pillar, avoiding her eye. Meanwhile the women were bustling about the hall, removing the remains of the feast, and heaping fresh fuel on the fires. Among them was Melantho, who had spoken so roughly to Odysseus an hour or two before. When she saw Odysseus she began railing at him again, and rudely bade him begone. Penelope soon reduced her to silence, and then calling Eurycleia she bade her place a seat for the stranger.

"Now tell me," began Penelope, when the chair had been brought, "who art thou, and of what country? And who were thy father and mother?"

"Ah! lady," answered Odysseus, "I beseech thee, question me not as to my country and my friends, lest thou open anew the fountain of my grief. It is not seemly to sit weeping and wailing in a stranger's house; and I fear that thou wilt say that my tears are the tears of drunkenness."

Penelope pressed him for an answer. "Thou surely art of some country," she said, smiling; "or art thou one of those of whom old stories tell, born of stocks and stones?"

"Since thou urgest it so strongly," replied Odysseus, "I cannot deny thee. In the broad realm of Crete there is a certain city, Cnosus by name; there reigned Minos, and begat Deucalion, my famous sire. To Deucalion two sons were born, Idomeneus the elder, and myself, whom he named Æthon. When war arose between the Greeks and Trojans, Idomeneus sailed to fight for the sons of Atreus, and I was left behind in my father's house. Then it was that I saw Odysseus, who was driven by stress of weather to seek shelter on our coasts. When he had anchored his ships in the harbour, he came up to the town and inquired for Idomeneus, whom he said was his friend, honoured and beloved; but we told him that Idomeneus had departed ten days before. Then I received him in my house, and feasted him and all his company for twelve days; for all that time the north wind blew, so that a man could not stand up against it. On the thirteenth day the wind ceased and they put out to sea."

Penelope's tears flowed fast as she listened to that cunning fiction, which seemed to bring her husband before her eyes. Odysseus watched her, with eyes set like horn or iron, as she sat before him sobbing and rocking herself to and fro; but his heart grew big within him, and he could hardly keep back his own tears. At length she grew calmer, and wishing to try him, asked him this searching question: "If thou didst indeed entertain my husband in thy house, tell me what manner of man he was, and what garments he had on, and who they were that attended him."

"It is hard," answered Odysseus, "to tell thee of what thou askest, after twenty years; nevertheless I will attempt to call up his image from the past. He wore a purple woollen cloak, of two folds, and it was held by a golden brooch with a double clasp; and on the brooch was fashioned a hound, holding in his jaws a fawn; and so skilfully was it wrought that the figures seemed to live, the fawn struggling to escape, and the hound clenching his fangs to hold him--so rare a piece it was. Under his cloak, Odysseus wore a close-fitting tunic, which glistened like the peel of a dried onion; for very soft and fine was the texture. I cannot tell whether these were the garments which he had on when he left you; it may be that they were a gift received on his voyage, for he had many friends. Even so I gave him a sword of bronze and a mantle, and a fringed tunic, when I bade him adieu. Further, I would have thee know that he had a squire with him, somewhat older than himself, a round-shouldered man, dark of complexion, and with curling hair. His name was Eurybates, and Odysseus held him in high regard."

What were the emotions of Penelope, when she heard the raiment and ornaments which her husband was wearing the last time she saw him thus described down to the minutest detail! For a long time she remained silent, overpowered by her feelings; and when she spoke again there was a ring of sincere warmth and friendliness in her voice. "I pitied thee before," she said, "seeing thee thus forlorn, but now thou shalt be my dear and honoured guest, for I know that thou hast spoken the truth. These garments, and the golden brooch, were a gift from my own hands to my dear lord. Alas! I shall never see him again. Cursed be the day that parted me from him, and sent him to the land of Troy, that name abhorred of my soul!"

"Lady," answered Odysseus, "no one could blame thee, or say that thou sorrowest beyond measure, for such a husband as thine. He was indeed a man of rare and god-like gifts. Nevertheless be comforted; for ere many days are passed thou wilt see him here, safe and sound, and loaded with the wealth which he has gathered in his wanderings." Then he went on to repeat the story which he had already told to Eumæus, with some further facts, drawn from his own experience in the last ten years; and concluded with this solemn adjuration: "Witness, this hearth of Odysseus, to which I am come, and witness Zeus, the supreme lord of heaven, if I lie! Ere yonder moon hath waned, Odysseus will be sitting under this roof."

Penelope shook her head sadly, as she replied: "It will be a happy day for thee, if thy prophecy is confirmed by the event. But what am I saying? 'Tis an empty dream. But come, let the maidens prepare a bath for thee, and afterwards them shalt sleep sound in a soft, warm bed. Well hast thou deserved to receive all honour and worship at my hands, and woe unto him that shall seek to harm thee! I will put a speedy end to his wooing. For what wilt thou say of me, when thou art wandering in distant lands, if I suffer thee to abide here thus poorly clad, unwashed, and uncared for? Few and evil are the days of our life; and the best we can do is to win a good name by our gentle deeds while we live, and leave a fair memory behind us when we die."

"I doubt not thy goodness," replied Odysseus; "but I have long been a stranger to the comforts of which thou speakest, and they suit not my forlorn and desolate state. Nor would I that any of thy handmaids should wash my feet, and mock my infirmities; but if thou hast here an aged house-dame, like unto me in years and in sorrows, I grudge not that such a one should wait upon me."

"Thou speakest as a prudent man," said Penelope, "and I have such an aged dame as thou describest among my household. She was the first who took my ill-fated husband in her arms when his mother bare him, and she nursed him tenderly and well. She shall wash thy feet, old though she be, and feeble." Then she called Eurycleia, who was sitting near, and said to her: "Come hither, nurse, and wash the stranger's feet. Who knows but thy master is now in like evil case, grown old before his time through care and misery?"

When she heard that, the old woman lifted up her voice and wept: "Odysseus," she cried, "child of my sorrow, what have I not borne for thee! Pious thou wast, and righteous in all thy dealings, yet Zeus hath chosen thee out from among all men to be the object of his hate. Yea, and perchance even now he is mocked in the house of strangers, as these women were lately mocking thee. Yea, I will wash thee, as Penelope bids me, and for thy sake also, for my heart is moved with pity because of thy woes."

With such speed as her years allowed, the dame went and fetched warm water, and a vessel for washing the feet. She set them down in front of Odysseus, and before she began her task, stood for some time peering curiously into his face. "Hear me, friend," she said, after a while, "of all the strangers that ever entered these doors, ne'er saw I one so like unto Odysseus as thou art, in form, and in voice, and in feet."

"So said everyone who saw us together," answered Odysseus. But her words filled him with alarm, and recalled to his mind an old scar, just above the knee, caused by a wound which he had received from a wild boar while hunting in his boyhood in the valleys of Parnassus, during a visit to Autolycus, Penelope's father. If his old nurse should discover the scar she would be certain to recognise him, and the consequences of the premature discovery might be fatal. However, he had now no excuse for declining the bath, so he drew back his chair into the shadow, still hoping to escape detection.

But Eurycleia, whose suspicions were already aroused, was not thus to be evaded. As she handled the limb her fingers felt the well-known mark, and she let the foot fall with a loud cry. The vessel was overset, and the water ran over the floor. Half laughing and half weeping, the old woman fell upon his neck. "Thou art Odysseus, dear child!" she cried, "and yet I knew thee not till I had touched thee with my hands."

During all this scene Penelope had been sitting like one in a dream, lost in the memories awakened by the supposed beggar's story. The nurse now turned to rouse her from her reverie, and tell her the joyful news; but Odysseus, seeing her intention, pressed a heavy hand on her mouth, and, drawing her down to him with the other, said in a fierce whisper: "Peace, woman, or I will slay thee! Wouldst thou destroy him whom thou hast nursed at thine own breast?"

Eurycleia had now recovered from the shock of that sudden recognition. "Fear me not," she said, "I will be as secret as the grave. But see, the water is all spilt; I go to fetch more." And so with a grave face, but a heart bounding with delight, the faithful old creature brought a fresh supply of water, and proceeded with the task of washing her master's feet.

When he resumed his place by the fire, he found Penelope in a soft and pensive mood, and dwelling, as was her wont, on the sorrows of her widowed state. "Friend," she said, with a gentle sigh, "I will not keep thee much longer from thy rest, for the hour approaches which brings sweet oblivion to careworn hearts--all save mine. For the night brings me no respite from my woes, but rather increases them. When the day's duties are over, and all the house is still, I lie tossing ceaselessly, torn by conflicting doubts and fears. E'en as the wakeful bird sits darkling all night long, and pours her endless plaint, now low and mellow, now piercing high and shrill, so wavers my spirit in its purpose, and threads the unending maze of thought. Sweet home of my wedded joy, must I leave thee, and all the faces which I love so well, and the great possessions which he gave into my keeping? Shall I become a byword among the people, as false to the memory of my true lord? Yet how can I face the reproaches of my son, who since he is come to manhood grows more impatient day by day, seeing the waste of his wealth, of which I am the cause?

"But I wished to ask thee concerning a dream which I had last night. There are twenty geese which I keep about the house, and I take pleasure in seeing them crop the grain from the water trough. In my dream I saw a great eagle swoop down from the mountains and slay them all, breaking their necks, There they lay dead in one heap; and I made loud lament for the slaying of my geese, so that the women gathered round me to comfort me. But the eagle descended again, and alighted on a jutting beam of the roof, and thus spake unto me with a human voice: 'Take comfort, daughter of Icarius; no dream is this, but a waking vision, which shall surely be fulfilled. The geese are the wooers, and I the eagle am thy husband, who will shortly come and give them to their doom.' Even as he said this I awoke, and going to the window I saw the geese by the door, cropping the grain from the trough, as is their wont."

"Lady," answered Odysseus, "there is but one interpretation of thy dream, and thy husband declared it with his own voice. Death looms near at hand for the wooers, and not one of them shall escape."

But Penelope shook her head. "It is ill trusting in dreams," she said, "and hard to discern the false from the true. There are two gates from which flitting dreams are sent to men: one is of horn, and the other of ivory: and the dreams which pass through the ivory gate are sent to beguile, while those which come from the gate of horn are a true message to him who sees them. And my dream, I believe, was sent me from the gate of ivory. Yea, the day is approaching, the hateful day, which shall part me for ever from the house of Odysseus; and this shall be the manner of the trial whereby I will prove which of the wooers is to win me: I will set up twelve axes, like the trestles on which the keel of a ship is laid, in the hall, and he who can send an arrow through the line of double axeheads from the further end of the hall shall win me for his bride. This device I learnt from Odysseus, who was wont thus to prove his skill in archery. Then farewell my home, the house of my lord, the home of my love, so fair, so full of plenty, which will haunt me in my dreams even unto life's end."

"Tis well-imagined, this trial of the wooers," answered Odysseus, "and I counsel thee to put them to the proof without delay; for I am sure that Odysseus will return here again before ever one of these men shall string his bow and shoot an arrow through the line of axes."

"Well, my friend," said Penelope, "I will now bid thee good-night, though gladly would I sit here till to-morrow's dawn, and let thee discourse to enchant mine ear. But there is a time for all things, and I would not rob thee of thy needful rest. Therefore I will go and lay my head on my uneasy pillow, and the women shall lay a bed for thee here, or where thou choosest."

The End draws near; Signs and Wonders

True to his character as a wandering beggar, Odysseus lay down to rest on a pile of sheepskins in the portico of the house. His mind was full of the events of the day, and of the terrible task which he had to perform on the morrow. When he thought of all the insults which had been heaped upon him in his own house, he ground his teeth with rage, and muttered bitter curses against the wooers. As if on purpose to provoke him further, just at this moment Melantho, and several of the other women, who slept in the town, came forth from the house, and passed by him with shrill laughter and merry gibes. Then his heart growled within him, even as a mother-hound growls over her whelps when she sees a stranger approaching, and in a sudden impulse of fury he started up to slay those faithless women on the spot; but repressing his mad purpose he smote his breast and rebuked his fiery spirit. Had he not borne even worse than this on the day when the Cyclops devoured his comrades in the cave?

When anger and shame had had their turn, other and more pressing anxieties came crowding upon him, banishing sleep from his eyelids. How was he with such help as Telemachus could give him to overpower and slay a hundred men in the prime of their youth and strength? It seemed an impossible feat, and his heart quaked within him as he counted those fearful odds.

At last sleep came upon him unawares, and in a dream he saw his divine friend and helper, Athene, standing by him, robed in awful beauty. "Where is thy faith?" she asked, in sweet and solemn tones. "Dost thou doubt my power to help thee? Know this, that with me at thy side thou couldst rout and slay a thousand armed men. Sleep on, then, and vex thyself no more; in a few short hours all thy trials shall be passed, and thou shalt rest in triumph under thine own roof-tree." Then she touched his brow with her finger, and departed; and after that he slept on soundly until dawn.

In the first grey light of morning he awoke, roused by a sound as of one wailing within the house. He sat up in his bed and listened: it was the voice of Penelope, his wife; for she too had had her dreams, sweet, indeed, while they lasted, but bitter to her waking memory. She thought that her husband came to her, in all the glory of his manhood, even as when he set out for Troy, and put his arms about her, and kissed her tenderly. Therefore she wept and wailed, thinking that it was another false vision, sent by some hostile deity to mock her widowhood.

What a sound was that for the lonely watcher before the house! "Patience, fond, sad heart!" he murmured to himself, "this very night thou shalt hold me in thine arms, and sob out thy sorrows on my breast." With that he rose to his feet, and lifting up his hands to heaven put up a prayer to Zeus: "Dread sire of gods, if with good will ye have brought me thus far, after so many perils by land and by water, send me a sign from heaven, and reveal unto me your purpose by the lips of one of those that be within the house."

A loud peal of thunder was heard in answer to his prayer; and a second sign was sent by the voice of a woman in the house. She was one of twelve maid-servants, whose duty it was to grind wheat and barley for the daily supply of bread. The others had finished their task, but she, being old and weak, was still toiling at her mill. When she heard the thunder she stopped for a moment, and thus uttered her complaint: "Thunder in a clear sky! That bodes ill to some that be here. Heaven grant that it may be to the wooers, for whom day by day I suffer this cruel toil, making meal for them! May this be the very last time that they sit down to meat in this house!" So saying, she returned to her labour, and Odysseus rejoiced at the double sign which had been vouchsafed to him.

By this time the whole household was afoot, and a score of busy hands were at work, under the direction of Eurycleia, preparing for the coming of the wooers. For it was a general holiday, being the festival of Apollo, and the guests were expected earlier than usual. Some went to the public fountain to fetch water, some swept and sprinkled the floor, and some sponged the tables and scoured the drinking vessels. Presently the herdsmen came in, driving before them the beasts for sacrifice; and of these the first to arrive was Eumæus, who brought three fat hogs as his part of the daily tribute. Leaving his charge to grub about in the courtyard, he came up to Odysseus, and inquired how he had fared among the wooers on the previous day. "I fared ill," answered Odysseus, "and ill fare the villains who deal thus with the stranger under another man's roof!"

A rude voice here broke in upon him, and Melanthius the goatherd thrust himself between them, jostling Odysseus, and reviling him in brutal terms, "What, still loitering here, thou vagabond? Wilt thou go begging at other men's tables, or art thou waiting to taste of my fists?" Odysseus deigned no reply, but shook his head, biding his time.

Another herdsman now entered the courtyard; this was Philoetius, who had charge of the herds of Odysseus on the mainland. He brought a heifer and two or three fat goats, having crossed over to Ithaca by the ferry. When he saw Odysseus he took Eumæus aside, and inquired who he was. "He is of kingly aspect," remarked the new-comer, "in spite of his wretched garb. But even kings may come to beggary, if it be Heaven's will."

Having heard from Eumæus what he had to tell, Philoetius approached Odysseus, and taking his right hand greeted him kindly, saying: "Welcome, old friend, for my master's sake! E'en such, methinks, is his case, if he still lives and looks upon the daylight. Ah! what a thought is that! It brings the sweat of agony to my brow when I think that even now he may be wandering in rags from door to door, begging for a morsel of bread, while his flocks and herds roam in thousands on the hills. What shall I do? It is not to be borne that all this wealth should increase and multiply, to feed the mouths of thieves and rogues. Often have I resolved to drive off my cattle into a far country, and no longer to abet these men in their riotous living; but my duty to Telemachus, and the hope that even now my lord may return, still hold me back."

Perceiving the neatherd to be loyal and staunch, Odysseus resolved to take him partly into his confidence, and answered accordingly: "Thy hope is nearer to fulfilment than thou thinkest. Hear me swear, by the hearth of Odysseus, and by the board at which I have fed, that before thou leavest Ithaca thou shalt see thy master with thine own eyes--thou shalt see him slaying the wooers who play the master here."

"Would that I might live to behold that day!" cried Philoetius. "May I never eat bread again, if the wooers felt not the might of my hands." Eumæus also declared himself ready to risk all by the side of Odysseus.

While they were thus conversing, the whole body of the wooers came thronging into the house, and the daily banquet began. At the inner end of the hall, commanding the door which led to the women's quarters, was a sort of platform or dais of stone, raised to some height above the general level of the floor, and facing the main entrance. Here Telemachus, as giver of the feast, was seated; and while the servants were handing round the dishes he called Odysseus from his place by the door, and made him sit down by his side. "Sit down here," he said, "and eat and drink thy fill. And you, sirs," he added, addressing the wooers, "keep a guard on your hands and your tongues. This is no tavern, but my own house, and I will not suffer my guest to be wronged by word or deed under my roof."

This bold speech passed for the present unchallenged, though many a threatening look was directed at the young prince. By order of Telemachus, Odysseus received an equal portion with the other guests, and the banquet proceeded. Presently a new instance of the wooers' brutality was given, as if they were resolved to keep the edge of his anger fresh and keen. The author of this outrage was Ctesippus, a wealthy lord of Same. Taking up a bullock's foot from a basket, in which the refuse of the meal was thrown, he made this merry jest: "The stranger has received an equal share of our meat, as is but right; for who would wish to stint a guest of Telemachus? And now I will make him a present over and above, that he may bestow somewhat on the bathwoman, or some other of the servants." Suiting the action to the word he hurled the missile with savage force at Odysseus; but he, ever on the alert, avoided it by bowing his head, and it struck the wall with a crash.

"Ctesippus," said Telemachus sternly, "it is well for thee that thou hast missed, else thou hadst died by my hand. Is it not enough that ye slaughter my cattle and pour out my wine like water, but must I sit here day after day while ye fill my house with riot and injury and outrage?"

The wooers sat silent, being somewhat abashed by the just rebuke; and after a long pause, one of them, whose name was Agelaus, answered mildly: "Telemachus says well, for indeed he hath been sorely provoked. Let there be an end of these mad doings, which it is a shame to see. And if Telemachus will be advised by me he will urge his mother to make choice of a husband, that he may henceforth dwell unmolested in his father's house. Why will she delay us further? Surely by this time she must have given up all hope of ever seeing Odysseus again."

"Now by the woes of my father!" answered Telemachus, "I hinder her not from wedding whom she pleases; nay, I bid her do so, and offer bridal gifts besides. But I cannot drive her by force from my doors."

His words had a strange effect on the wooers: with one accord they broke out into a yelling peal of laughter, like women in a hysteric fit, while their eyes were filled with tears. And, more awful still! their meat dropped blood as they conveyed it to their lips, and an unearthly wailing was heard, like the cry of a spirit in torment.

Among those present was Theoclymenus, the man of second sight, and in that very hour the vision came upon him, and he cried aloud from the place where he sat: "Woe unto you, ye doomed and miserable men! Thick darkness is wrapped about you, the darkness of the grave! All the air is loud with wailing, and your cheeks are wet with tears. See, see! the walls and the rafters are sprinkled with blood, and the porch and the courtyard are thronged with ghosts, hurrying downward to the nether pit; and the sun has died out of heaven, and all the house lies in darkness and the shadow of death."

But the wooers had now recovered from their strange fit, and they laughed gaily at the terrible warning of the seer. "Poor man!" said Eurymachus, "he has left his wits at home. Go, someone, and show him the way to the town, if he finds it so dark here."

"I need no guide," answered Theoclymenus, "I have eyes and ears, and feet, and a steady brain, so that I shall not go astray. Farewell, unhappy men! Your hour of grace is past." And forthwith he arose and went his way to the town.

When he was gone the wooers began jeering at Telemachus, and taunted him with the behaviour of his guests. "Thou hast a rare taste," said one, "in the choice of thy company! First, this filthy beggar that cumbers the ground with his greedy carcass, and after him comes the mad prophet, and screams like a raven over our meat"

One meaning glance passed between Telemachus and his father; the day was drawing on, and they cared not now to bandy words with the wooers. And so the merry feast came to an end with jesting, and mirth, and laughter; and after a few short hours they were to sit down to supper--such a supper as they had never tasted before, with a hero and a goddess to spread the board.

The Bow of Odysseus