Stories from the Odyssey

I

Early next day Eumæus 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 Eumæus, 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. Eumæus 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 Eumæus 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 Eumæus 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, Eumæus, 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 Eumæus, 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 Eumæus, 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 Phæacians 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 Eumæus, 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 Eumæus 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."

I

When Eumæus came back from his errand, Odysseus, who in the meantime had resumed his disguise, was helping Telemachus to prepare the evening meal. Telemachus questioned him about the ship which the wooers had sent out to waylay him on his return from Pylos, but Eumæus had been in such haste to get back to his farm that he had not stopped to inquire about the matter. "But thus much I can tell thee," he said: "as I was crossing the hill which overlooks the town I saw a galley, bristling with spear and helm, entering the harbour; and I believe that this was the ship of which thou speakest"

"No doubt of it," answered Telemachus, with a significant glance at his father. Then they all fell to their suppers with hearty appetite, and soon afterwards retired to rest.

The first chill of dawn was still in the air when Telemachus roused the swineherd, and announced his intention of proceeding at once to the town. "I know," he said, "that my mother will have no peace until she sees me with her own eyes. Now as to this stranger, I charge thee to take him with thee into the town, that he may beg his bread from house to house. Burdened as I am already, and full of care, I cannot provide for him. If he thinks it hard, all the worse for him."

"Thou sayest well," answered Odysseus; "I have no mind to remain here. I am too old to take orders from a master, and it is better to beg my living in the town than in the fields. Therefore I will go, when I have warmed me at the fire, and the sun is up; for I am ill equipped to face the frosts of morning."

Away went Telemachus, covering the ground with rapid strides, his mind occupied all the way with thoughts of vengeance against the wooers. The first who saw him when he crossed the threshold of his home was his old nurse, Eurycleia, who was just then spreading fleeces on the seats in the great hall. With a cry of joy she ran and fell on his neck, and kissed him; and all the faithful handmaids of Penelope crowded round to welcome their young master home. The sound of their voices reached the ears of Penelope, and with swift steps she came gliding into the hall, fair as Artemis, or golden Aphrodite. When she saw Telemachus she flung her arms round his neck and covered his face with kisses. "Welcome," she sobbed, "Telemachus, my heart's darling, restored to me beyond all hope! Say, hast thou brought any news of thy father?"

But Telemachus was too full of the stern task which lay before him to leave room for softer emotions. Gently extricating himself from his mother's embrace he said: "Dear mother, thou shalt hear all in due season; at present I have other work to do. Go thou to thy chamber, and put on clean raiment, and when thou hast purified thyself pray to all the immortal gods to hasten the day of atonement for those who have wronged our house. I will return presently, when I have done my business in the town."

The gentle Penelope went to do her son's bidding, and Telemachus started for the town, with two hounds following close at his heels. He seemed taller and manlier after his short absence, and many an eye followed him with wonder as he passed through the streets. Presently he came to the place where the wooers were assembled, and they came crowding about him with false words of welcome. But he turned his back on them with scorn, and seeing a little group of his father's friends, among whom were Mentor and the aged Halitherses, he went and sat down among them. While they were questioning him about his travels, Peiræus came up, bringing with him the seer, Theoclymenus, whom Telemachus had left in his charge the day before. "I restore to thee thy guest," said Peiræus, "who has been entertained in all honour at my house; and if thou wilt send thy handmaids, I will deliver unto them the treasure which thou hast brought with thee from Pylos."

"I thank thee," answered Telemachus; "Theoclymenus shall go with me; but as to the treasure, do thou keep it for me until these evil days are passed. If aught untoward befall me, I had rather it remained with thee than that it should fall into the hands of the wooers."

Having taken leave of his friends, he returned to the house, taking Theoclymenus with him. And when they had bathed and put on fresh raiment, they sat down to meat. The meal proceeded in silence, and at last Penelope, who was sitting near, busy with her distaff, and longing impatiently to hear her son's news, said in a tone of displeasure: "Hast thou no word for thy mother, Telemachus? Or art thou keeping thy tidings until the wooers return? Surely I thought in this rare interval of quiet to hear how thou hast fared and what thou hast learnt on this journey. But if thou hast naught to tell me, I will go to my widowed bed, and weep away the hours until dawn."

Roused from his reverie by his mother's reproaches, Telemachus gave a brief account of his visit to Nestor and Menelaus, and of what they had told him. Penelope was musing on her son's report, when Theoclymenus, the second-sighted man, started up from his seat, and cried: "I see him, I see him! He is landed in Ithaca, he is coming hither, he is here! Woe unto the suitors! Their hour is at hand, and not one of them shall escape."

Penelope had heard such prophecies too often to pay much heed to the seer's vision. "Ah! my friend," she said, with a sad smile, "I can but pray that thy words will be fulfilled; if ever they are, it shall be a happy day for thee."

At this moment the wooers came trooping in, filling the house with riot and uproar; and there was an end of all quiet converse for that day.

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.

Just after Eumæus had left, a huge, ungainly fellow came slouching up to the place where Odysseus was sitting, and eyed him with a look of great disfavour. He was the town beggar, known far and wide in Ithaca as the greediest and laziest knave in the whole island. His real name was Arnæus, but from being employed to run errands about the place he had received the nickname of Irus. Highly indignant at finding his rights usurped by a new-comer, and thinking to find in that battered old man an easy victim, he began to rate his supposed rival in a big, blustering voice: "Give place, old man, to thy betters, and force me not to use my hands upon thee. Begone, and that quickly, or it shall be the worse for thee; out of the way, I say!"

With a stern look Odysseus answered him, and said: "What possesses thee, fellow, that thou seekest a quarrel with me? Thou art, as I perceive, a beggar like me, and I grudge thee not anything which thou mayest receive in the way of alms from those who sit here. There is room on this threshold for us both. But I warn thee not to provoke me to blows, for old as I am I will set a mark upon thee which thou wilt carry to thy death."

Trusting in his size, and encouraged by the nods and winks of the wooers who sat near, Irus was only too ready to take up the challenge. "Hark to the old starveling cur!" he shouted. "How glib of tongue he is, like any scolding hag! Get thee to thy fists then, since thou wilt have it so, and I will knock all thy teeth out, if thou hast any left"; and he thrust Odysseus with his foot.

All the wooers now came running up, and crowded round the exasperated beggars, hoping to see fine sport. Antinous took the lead, such a scene being exactly to his taste. "Here is matter for mirth," he cried, laughing, "for many a day. Make a ring quickly, and let them fight it out."

In the courtyard there was a red smouldering fire, on which two huge sausages were roasting, a sort of haggis made by filling the belly of a goat with fat and blood. It was determined to give one of these messes to the winner in the fight; and he also was henceforth to have the sole right to receive the broken meats at the wooers' feasts.

I

"How slowly move the hours," said Penelope to Eurycleia, yawning and then laughing in sheer vacancy of spirit. "How would it be if I showed myself to the wooers? I hate them, it is true, but it would serve to pass the time, and I could caution my son not to be so familiar with these treacherous friends."

"Do so, my child," answered Eurycleia, "but first wash and anoint thyself, and go not among them with this tear-stained face. And waste not thy life in perpetual mourning; think what a comfort thou hast in thy son."

"Speak not to me of such vanities," answered Penelope; "why should I wish to preserve this poor remnant of my beauty? Foul or fair, what matters it in my widowed state? But send two of my handmaids hither to attend me, for it is not seemly that I should go alone among the men."

While the nurse was gone to fetch the maidens, a sudden drowsiness overpowered Penelope, and she sank back in her chair, subdued by a short but trancelike sleep. And while she slumbered, invisible hands were busy with her person, washing away all the stains which sorrow had left on her face, and shedding upon her immortal loveliness, such as clothes the Queen of Love herself, when she joins the sister Graces in the dance. The voices of the women entering her chamber roused her from that strange sleep, and sitting up she rubbed her cheeks and said: "Wondrous soft was the slumber which overtook me in my sorrow! Would that it were death which had come upon me with like softness, that I might no longer waste away in mourning for the excellence of my dear, dear lord!"

Thereupon she arose, and descending the stairs stood in the open doorway of the hall, with a handmaid on either side. A murmur of surprise and admiration went round the whole company, for never had she seemed so wondrous fair. Turning to Telemachus she said: "My son, with grief I perceive that thy understanding increaseth not with thy growth, but rather becometh less. Who would think, seeing thee thus tall and comely, like a prince's true son, that thou wouldst suffer such deeds to be wrought upon the stranger within thy gates? What if he had come by his death through this violence? What shame and infamy to thee!"

"Mother," answered Telemachus, "thou hast some reason for thine anger. Howbeit, I have a man's wit, and am not, as thou sayest, more foolish than a child. But what can one do against so many? And as to this stranger, thou wouldst know that thy fears are idle, if thou couldst see Irus as he now sits at the gate, rolling his head like a drunkard, with no strength to stand on his feet or stir from his place. Would that all the wooers were in the same plight!"

While Telemachus was defending himself, Eurymachus had been gazing with bold eyes on that fair lady; and now he addressed her with smooth words of flattery: "Daughter of Icarius, sage Penelope, if all the Greeks could behold thee as now thou art, this house would not contain the multitude of thy wooers. Thou surpassest all the daughters of men in beauty, and in stature, and in thy even-balanced wit"

"Eurymachus," answered Penelope, "all the bloom of my womanhood was blighted on the evil day when the Greeks embarked for Troy, and Odysseus, my lord, went with them. But now I am like some poor hunted creature, hard beset by the hounds of fate. Well I remember my husband's parting words. Holding my right hand he said: 'Dear wife, I am going into the midst of perils, and it may be that we shall never see each other again. Be thou but faithful to thy trust, and remember whose daughter thou art; and when thou seest thy son with a beard on his cheeks, thou art free to marry whom thou wilt.' Such were his words, and now they shall shortly be fulfilled. I see the day approaching which shall make me another man's wife; better for me if I were the bride of death! For who ever beheld such wooing as yours? 'Twas ever the custom among those who sought the daughter of a wealthy house in marriage to bring with them their own sheep and oxen to make good cheer for the friends of the bride; but ye sit here as unbidden guests, and devour my living."

Odysseus smiled to himself with pleasure when he heard this artful speech of Penelope, for he perceived her intention, which was to draw gifts from the wooers, and raise their hopes by the prospect of her approaching marriage. And the artifice was successful, for the wooers, following the lead of Antinous and Eurymachus, at once despatched their servants to bring the bride gifts from their houses. Antinous gave a splendid embroidered robe, with twelve golden clasps, Eurymachus a necklace of amber and gold, and Eurydamas a pair of jewelled earrings. These and other costly offerings were brought to Penelope in her chamber.

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?"