II

It was past noon before Odysseus and Eumæus set out for the town; for

Eumæus had conceived a great liking for his guest, and listened with

delight to his wonderful tales of adventure. "Come," he said at last,

when Odysseus had finished one of his long stories. "It is time to be

going, though I would willingly have kept thee here. But my young lord

has spoken and we must obey." "Lead on," said Odysseus, "I know what

thou wouldst say; but first give me a staff to lean on, for I heard

thee say that the path was rough."

So saying he threw his tattered wallet over his shoulder, and taking a

stout staff, which Eumæus offered him, started with his friend across

the hills. After a toilsome walk they reached the top of the hill

which overlooked the town, and descending the slope they came to a

copious spring of water, well fenced with stones, and shaded by a

grove of alders. The water descended into a basin from the face of a

rock in a cool and copious stream; and on either side stood an altar

to the nymphs. "It is the common fountain of the townspeople,"

explained Eumæus. "The altars and the basin which receives the water

are the work of our ancient kings."

Odysseus paused a moment, lost in the memories which were awakened by

that familiar scene. But his reverie was rudely interrupted. While he

stood gazing at the fountain, he heard a rude voice hailing them from

the road, and looking round he saw a man leading a pair of fine goats

towards the town. It was Melanthius, his own goatherd, who was

bringing the best of his flock to make savoury meat for the wooers.

"Here are two birds of a feather!" shouted the fellow, in jeering

tones--"that wretched swineherd, and a ravenous beggar. A fine guest

thou art bringing to our young masters, and a fair welcome, without

doubt, they will give him. Were it not better that I took him with me

to my farm? He could sweep out the pens, and gather green shoots for

the kids; and we would give him whey to drink, and put some flesh on

these shrunk shanks[1] of his. But the lazy knave will do no work; he

would rather rub his shoulders against every door-post, begging for

broken meat. Broken bones will be his portion, if the wooers see him

near the house of Odysseus."

[Footnote 1: "A world too wide for his shrunk shanks,"--Shakespeare:

"As You Like It."]

While he uttered these taunts Melanthius had gradually come close to

Odysseus, and with the last word he lifted up his foot and kicked him

with all his force on the hip. Odysseus stood like a rock, and stirred

not an inch from his ground; his first impulse was to seize the

ruffian by the ankles, and dash out his brains on the road; but he

checked himself with a great effort, and said not a word.

But Eumæus rebuked the goatherd, and invoked the vengeance of heaven

against him. "Would that our noble master were here!" he cried, "he

would soon make an end of thee, thou braggart! Unfaithful herdsman,

that rovest ever about the town, leaving thy flock to underlings!"

"Go to, thou dog!" retorted Melanthius, with a savage laugh. "Wilt

thou be ever harping on that string? Thy noble master is dust long

ago, and I would that Telemachus were lying with him. As for thee, I

will one day cast thee bound into a ship, and sell thee across the

seas for a great price."

With that he left them, and stepped briskly out towards the house,

while Odysseus and Eumæus followed more slowly. Presently they came to

an extensive enclosure, standing conspicuously on a high level plateau

overlooking the town. Behind the fence towered the roof of a great

timber house. They passed through the outer gates, and as they entered

the courtyard they heard the sounds of a harp, and the steam of roast

flesh was borne to their nostrils.

"Take heed now," said Eumæus, lowering his voice, as they approached

the door of the house. "I will go in first, and do thou follow me

close, lest anyone find thee outside and do thee some hurt."

"Fear nothing for me," answered Odysseus, "I am no stranger to blows,

for I have been sore buffeted on land and sea. The belly is a stern

taskmaster, which compels us to face both wounds and death."

So saying he stepped aside to let Eumæus pass, then checked him with a

hasty exclamation; for he had seen something which sent a pang of

sorrow to his heart. Heaped up against the wall by the doorway was a

great pile of refuse, left there until the thralls should carry it

away and lay it on the fields; and there, grievously neglected, and

almost blind with age, lay a great gaunt hound, to all seeming more

dead than alive. What was the emotion of Odysseus when he recognised

in that poor creature his old favourite, Argus, whom he had reared

with his own hand, and trained to the chase, in the old days before he

sailed to Troy! As he stooped down with a caressing gesture the hound

feebly raised his head; a strange light came into his eyes, he drooped

his ears, and wagged his tail, but was too weak to stir from the place

where he lay. Odysseus brushed away a tear, and said to Eumæus: "'Tis

strange that so fine a hound should lie thus uncared for in his old

age. Or do his looks belie his qualities? Handsome he must have been,

as I can see still; but perhaps his beauty was all he had to boast

of."

"He was my master's favourite hound," answered Eumæus, "and there was

none swifter or keener of scent in all the land. Formerly the young

men would take him with them to hunt the wild goat or the hare or the

deer; but now that he is sore stricken with years not one of the women

will bring him a morsel to eat, or a little water to drink. So it ever

is when the master is absent; for a slave has no conscience when his

owner's eye is not upon him."

When Eumæus had entered the house, Odysseus lingered awhile, gazing

sadly at the faithful Argus. The old hound raised himself, and

struggled painfully to drag himself to his master's feet; but the

effort was too much for him, and he sank back on his sorry bed, and

breathed his last.

With a heavy heart Odysseus turned away, and passing into the hall sat

down on the threshold and laid his scrip beside him. Telemachus was

the first to notice him, and calling the swineherd, who was sitting

near, he gave him a loaf of bread and a good handful of meat, and bade

him carry it to the beggar. "And tell him to go round and beg of all

the wooers," he said: "want and modesty agree ill together." Eumæus

brought the gift and the message, which Odysseus received with a

blessing on the giver. And when he had eaten he rose and went round

the hall, begging of the wooers. All gave him something until he came

to Antinous, who stared at him insolently and asked who he was.

"I saw the fellow," answered Melanthius, "a little while ago. Eumæus

brought him hither, but who he is I know not."

"Ah! thou rogue," said Antinous to the swineherd, "we know thy ways!

Why didst thou bring this caitiff to the town? Are there not beggars

enough here already to mar our pleasure when we sit down to meat? 'Tis

nought to thee, it seems, that these palmer-worms come swarming round

the house to devour thy master's living."

[Illustration: The Return of Odysseus]

"He is no guest of my inviting," answered Eumæus. "I would not invite

to this house any wandering stranger, unless he were a prophet, or

leech, or shipwright, or minstrel; and he is none of these. But thou

art ever hard on the servants of Odysseus, and especially on me; yet I

care not, so long as I satisfy Penelope and my young lord,

Telemachus."

"Eumæus, thou art overbold of speech," said Telemachus; then turning

to Antinous he added: "I thank thee for thy fatherly care, but we are

not so poor that we need to drive the stranger from our doors--heaven

forbid! Give him something; 'tis I that bid thee: but thou art ever

better at taking than at giving."

"I will give him something, thou malapert boy," answered Antinous,

grinding his teeth with rage, "something which will keep him from the

house for three months to come." As he spoke he thrust forward a heavy

footstool from under the table, and placed it ready at hand.

Meanwhile, Odysseus, having filled his wallet, was preparing to return

to his place on the threshold. But first he came to Antinous, and

addressed to him a long harangue in the common style of the

professional beggar, who had seen better days and been brought to want

by the malice of fortune. He concluded with a fragment of the story

which he had already told to Eumæus.

Antinous heard him to the end with ill-disguised impatience, and then

broke out in angry tones: "Who brought this wretched fellow here to

vex us? Stand off from my table, thou shameless varlet! Egypt, sayest

thou? I will send thee to Egypt, and with a vengeance, too! It is a

shame to see how they have squandered good meat on a dog like thee";

and he pointed to the wallet, now filled with the cheap bounty of the

wooers.

Odysseus drew back and made for the door, saying as he went: "Of a

truth, I wonder to find so princely a presence wedded to so mean a

temper."

When he heard that Antinous began to curse and to swear, and lifting

the footstool he hurled it with all his force at the retreating figure

of Odysseus. It struck him on the shoulder, with a crash that vibrated

through the hall; but Odysseus heeded it not, but passed on without a

pause or a stumble to his place on the threshold. When he was seated

he complained loudly of the brutal conduct of Antinous. "Accursed be

he," he said, "who lifts up his hand against a helpless beggar; may

Heaven requite him for this foul deed!"

"Thou hadst best be quiet," said Antinous, "or we will drag thee by

the heels through the hall, until we have stripped the flesh off thy

bones."

But this was too much even for the wooers. "Antinous," said one of

them, "it was ill done of thee to strike the hapless wanderer. Take

heed that thou bring not a curse upon thyself, if there be gods in

heaven to see such deeds. And what if a god should visit this house in

some strange disguise, to make trial of our hearts? It were no new

thing."

A chill seemed to have fallen on the company after this shameful

incident. The wooers had ceased their clamour, and sat talking in low

tones together; Odysseus and Telemachus sat silent in their places,

brooding gloomily on the outrage; Antinous alone remained unmoved,

being hardened, within and without, against all reproach.

When Penelope, who was sitting among her maidens in her chamber, heard

how the stranger had been ill-treated, she cried: "So may Apollo smite

thee, Antinous, thou godless man!" "Ay," said Eurycleia, "if prayers

could slay them, not one of these men would see to-morrow's dawn."

"Go, one of you," said Penelope, "and bring hither the swineherd. I

would fain speak with this stranger; who knows but he may have

somewhat to tell me of Odysseus, my lord?" Eumæus was summoned, and

having heard the desire of Penelope, he answered: "My queen, there is

a rare pleasure awaiting thee. This man hath a tongue to charm thy

very soul. Three days and nights he abode with me, and all that time

he kept us spellbound by the tale of his adventures. It was as if we

were listening to the lay of some rare minstrel, a god-gifted man, who

sways all hearts as he will by the magic of his voice. And he brings

sure tidings of Odysseus too, if we may believe what he says."

"Call him hither," answered Penelope, "that he may speak to me face to

face. If his news be true, we may yet see the day when these men shall

pay a heavy price for their plunder of our house."

As she spoke, a loud sneeze was heard in the room below. "It was my

son," said Penelope, laughing, "I know it by the sound; and it is a

sign that my words will be fulfilled. Make haste now, and bring the

stranger to me."

Eumæus went, and presently returned with a message from the supposed

beggar, to say that he feared fresh violence from the wooers, if he

left his place by the door and passed through them again. The truth

was that Odysseus feared recognition if he appeared before his wife in

broad daylight; so he affected to complain of the indifference of

Telemachus, who had allowed the savage deed of Antinous to go

unpunished, and begged permission to wait until the evening, when the

wooers would be gone home, and he could tell his story unmolested.

"He says well," answered Penelope, when she had heard the message.

"And he seems to be a man of sense. We will wait until evening, as he

desires."

The day was waning when Eumæus returned to the hall, and the wooers

had already begun their evening pastimes. The swineherd went up to

Telemachus, and said to him in a low tone: "It is time for me to

return to my farm, that I may give an eye to the things which I have

in charge. I leave thee to look to the house, and all that it

contains; but above all be careful of thyself, for there are many here

who wish thee ill."