The face of Ulysses was changed. The hard lines of endeavour, the brown painting of the wind, had gone from it. Noble and beautiful still, but even in sleep it could be seen to have lost its force.
Suddenly, in the dim recesses of the grove, there was a silence. The birds stopped singing, and the murmur of the insects droned, swelled louder, and died away.
Nothing was heard for a moment but the trickle of the streams, and then this also faded from sound.
By the side of the sleeping hero stood the tall white figure of Athene. At her feet yellow flowers broke out like little flames, and her deep, grave eyes were bent full upon Ulysses.
Perhaps he felt that unearthly majesty above him, for he turned and moaned in his sleep.
The goddess, like a statue of white marble, stood looking down at him for several moments. Then with a little sigh she stooped and touched his forehead with her long slender fingers.
The birds began a full-throated ecstasy of song, which filled the wood with a sound as of a myriad tiny flutes. The furry bees went swinging through the sunlit grove with deep organ music, the shrill tinkle of the streams sent its cool message once more into the hot swooning air.
Where the goddess had stood there was nothing but a clump of yellow crocus and some violets more vivid than the rest.
Ulysses awoke with sudden stammerings like a frightened child. He looked round him with strange troubled eyes.
Then slowly he rose up and walked through the wood towards the cave of Calypso.