Odysseus was sitting bowed over the fire, which shone redly on his face, as he leaned his head upon his hand. He was still clothed in his beggar's rags, and strangely disfigured by the magic power of Athene; while the red stains of slaughter, which still lay thick upon him, served to render his disguise yet deeper. Small wonder then that Penelope hesitated long to acknowledge him for her husband, as she sat some way off scanning his features with timid yet attentive gaze, like one who strives to decipher a blurred and blotted ma.n.u.script. More than once she started up, as if about to fall upon his neck; then the gleam which had lighted up her face died away, her arms drooped listlessly at her side, and she remained motionless and cold.

When this had lasted for some time, Telemachus, who was present, rebuked his mother in angry terms, saying: "Fie upon thee, my mother!

hast thou no heart at all? Why holdest thou thus aloof from my father, who has come back to thee after twenty years of suffering and toil?

But 'twas ever thus with thee--thou art harder than stone."

"My child," answered Penelope, "I am sore amazed; I cannot speak, or ask any question, or look him in the face. But if this man be indeed my husband, he knows how to convince me, and scatter all my doubts to the winds, for there are secrets between us whereof no one knoweth, save only ourselves."

Odysseus smiled at his wife's caution. "Not in vain," he thought, "is she known to all the world as the prudent Penelope." Then, in order to give her time, he turned to Telemachus and said: "Come not between my wife and me, Telemachus; we shall know each other in due season. I have another charge for thee, and do thou mark heedfully what I shall say. We have slain the n.o.blest in the land, not one, but many, who leave a host of friends to take up their cause: how then shall we escape the blood feud? We had best look to it warily and well."

"Father," answered Telemachus, "thou hast the name of wise, beyond all living men. Be it thine, therefore, to declare thy counsel, and I will follow it, to the utmost stretch of my power."

"Thus, then, shalt thou do," said Odysseus: "let all the household put on clean raiment, and bid the minstrel take his harp and make sweet music for the festal dance. Then foot it merrily, everyone, that all they who pa.s.s by the house may think that ye are keeping the marriage feast. In this wise the rumour of the wooers' death shall not reach the town until we have had time to collect our men and prepare for our defence."

Telemachus went forthwith to carry out his father's orders. The whole household, men and women, arrayed themselves in festal attire, and soon the hall echoed to the throbbing notes of the lyre, and the loud patter of the dancers' feet. And those who heard it from without said to one another: "So the long wooing of our queen has come to an end at last! Fickle woman, that could not endure unto the end, and keep faith with the husband of her youth!"

III

After giving his orders to Telemachus, Odysseus had retired to refresh himself with the bath, and put on fresh raiment, while Penelope remained seated in her former place. After an interval of some length he re-entered the hall, and sat down face to face with his wife. But what miracle was this? The haggard, timeworn beggar was gone, and in his place sat her husband, as she had known him in the days of old, with the added dignity which he had gained by twenty years of strenuous life. But the frost which had lain upon her spirit during her long period of weary waiting was not easily to be broken, and still she doubted. After a long silence Odysseus spoke, and now for the first time his tones had a ring of reproach: "Still not a word for thy husband, who has come back to thee after twenty years? Surely the very demon of unbelief possesses thee!" Even then Penelope made no answer, for she was waiting to put the final test, and at length Odysseus gave her the opportunity. "Go, Eurycleia," he said, "and prepare a bed for me; I will leave this iron-hearted wife and go to my rest."

"Ay, do so," said Penelope, "take the bed from the chamber which he built with his own hands, and lay it in another room, that he may slumber there." This she said to prove him, for the bed and the chamber had a secret history, known only to herself and her husband and the faithful nurse.

Odysseus rose bravely to the test: whether divining his wife's purpose or not, he exclaimed, with an air of surprise and indignation: "Lady, what meanest thou by this order? Who hath moved my bed from its place?

He must be of more than mortal skill who could remove it, for it was fashioned in wondrous wise, and with my own hands I wrought it, to be a sign and a secret between thee and me. And this was the manner of the work. Within the courtyard there grew an olive-tree, a fair tree and a large, with a world of green leaves, and a stem like a stout pillar. Round this I built the walls of the chamber with close-fitting stones, and roofed it over, and hung the door on its hinges. Then I went to work on the tree, lopping off the boughs, and smoothing the trunk with the adze, so as to fashion it into a bedpost, and beginning from this I made the frame of a bed, and decorated it with gold and silver and ivory, and over the frame I stretched broad bands of ox-hide, stained with bright purple. This I tell thee as a sign by which thou mayest know me."

The last shadow was now removed, and before Odysseus had well ended what he was saying Penelope sprang towards him, threw her arms round his neck, and covered his face with kisses. "Be not angry with me, my dear lord," she murmured tenderly, "because I held back so long, and gave thee not loving welcome, as I do now. Thou art very wise, and knowest the dangers which beset a lonely woman who is over hasty to believe when a stranger comes and calls himself her husband. Many there be that lie in wait to lay snares for a weak and loving heart.

But now I know thee for mine own dear love, and now is the winter of my widowhood made glorious summer, since I have seen thy face again."

So they sat locked in each other's arms, that valiant, long-suffering man, and his faithful wife, two brave and patient souls, parted so long, and tried so hard, but now united once more in wedded love and bliss. The hours went by unheeded, and day would have overtaken them in that trance of delight, had not Athene marked them with pity from her heavenly seat, and stayed the steeds of the morning in the east, and prolonged the reign of night, that the joy of that first meeting might not be broken until they had tasted all its honey to the lees.

Conclusion

I

Early next day Odysseus rose and donned his armour, and having charged Penelope to keep close in her chamber, and admit no one into the house, he set forth to visit Laertes on his farm, attended by Telemachus and the two faithful herdsmen, all armed to the teeth.

Arrived at the farmhouse he left his companions there, bidding them prepare the morning meal, and went out alone to find his father.

Pa.s.sing through the courtyard gate, he entered a large plot of ground, planted by Laertes as a garden and orchard; and there he found the old man, who was digging about the roots of a young tree. With strange emotions Odysseus noted every detail of his dress and figure--the soiled and tattered coat, the gaiters of clouted leather, the old gauntlets on his hands, and the goatskin cap. He who had once been the wealthiest prince in Ithaca had now the appearance of an ancient serving-man, broken down with years and toil.

But in the midst of his sorrow a freakish whim came into the head of Odysseus, characteristic of his subtle and tortuous nature.

Approaching his father, who was still stooping over his work, he said to him in a disguised voice: "Old man, I perceive that thou art well skilled in the gardener's art: never saw I a garden better tended--not a tree, not a shrub, but bears witness to thy fostering care. And be not wroth with me if I say that is a wonder to see the keeper of so fair a garden himself so squalid and unkempt. Surely he whom thou servest must be an ungrateful master. Tell me his name, if thou wilt, and answer me truly if this be indeed the land of Ithaca to which I am come, as I heard from a man whom I met by the way. He seemed a churlish fellow, and would not stay to answer my questions; for I was fain to ask him concerning a friend whom I once entertained in my house, a native of Ithaca, as he told me, and a son of one Laertes.

Many days he dwelt with me, eating and drinking of the best, and I sent him away laden with rich gifts, gold and silver, and costly raiment."

"Friend," answered Laertes, shedding tears, "to Ithaca indeed art thou come, but he of whom thou askest is no longer here. In vain were thy gifts bestowed, for he who would have repaid thee richly for all thy kindness hath perished long ago, and his bones lie bleaching on the bare earth, or at the bottom of the sea. Tell me, how long is it since thou didst receive him, and who art thou, and where is thy home?"

"I am a man of Alybas," replied Odysseus, "the son of Apheidas the son of Polypemon, and Eperitus is my name; and it is now five years since Odysseus departed from my home. Fair omens attended him on his starting, and we parted in high hopes that we should meet again in his own land."

At these words of Odysseus the poor old man was overwhelmed with sorrow, and he heaped dust upon his grey head, groaning in bitterness of spirit. Odysseus was moved with pity at the sight of his distress, and thinking that he had now tried him enough, he revealed himself, pointing as proofs to the scar above his knee, and to certain trees which Laertes had allowed him to call his own when he walked with him, hand-in-hand, as a little child, through the garden.

The sudden shock of joyful recognition was too much for the old man, and he fell fainting into his son's arms. When he was somewhat recovered they went back together towards the house, and on the way Odysseus spoke of the slaying of the wooers, and of the danger which threatened him from the vengeance of their friends.

II

Meanwhile the news of the wooers' violent death had spread like wildfire through the island, and their kinsmen went with loud clamour to the house of Odysseus to carry away the dead bodies. When this was done they gathered together at the place of a.s.sembly to devise some plan of vengeance; and Eupeithes, the father of Antinous, made violent outcry against Odysseus for his great act of savage justice.

While they were debating, Medon and Phemius appeared on the scene, and described the manner in which the wooers had met their end. "The hand of Heaven," said Medon, "was made manifest in the deed. I myself saw Athene leading the onset, and your sons were laid low like ripe sheaves before the sickle." This report chilled their courage not a little; and Halitherses, seeing the effect produced, exerted all his eloquence to put an end to the blood feud. Nevertheless more than half of those present persisted in their purpose, and donning their armour went forth from the town to meet the party of Odysseus.

The encounter took place in front of the farmhouse, where Odysseus and the others had just taken their morning meal. Laertes, who seemed to have recovered all the vigour of his youth, led the attack, and by a well-aimed cast of his lance struck down Eupeithes, the leader of the opposing party. This success was followed up by a vigorous charge, in the midst of which a supernatural voice was heard in the air, striking terror into the a.s.sailants of Odysseus, who turned and fled in wild panic towards the town. They were hotly pursued, and not a man would have been left alive had not Zeus himself interposed to stay the slaughter. By his command Athene acted as mediator between Odysseus and the kinsmen of the wooers, and an oath of amnesty was taken on both sides, confirmed with solemn prayer and sacrifice.