Hearing footsteps, the four fierce dogs which herded the swine rushed out of the yard and leapt angrily at the newcomer. He might have fared badly, for the great beasts were lean and evil-tempered, had not the swineherd ran out to his help and drew them off with curses.
“NAY, IF YOU LOVE ME,” HE SAID, “NONE OF THAT, MY FRIEND.”
He turned to Ulysses. “Thank the gods, old fellow,” he cried, “that I was near by. A little more and you would have been torn to pieces, and then you would be in an evil plight but I a worse! Dead would you be and past caring, but I should be disgraced. Heaven knows, I have enough trouble to bear. Here’s my lawful master gone in foreign parts these long years—dead as like as not—and I sit here feeding swine for them that are but little better themselves. But come in, come in, old shrew. There’s a bite of food for you within, which you need I make no doubt, and then you can tell me your story, for I am a lonely man now and like a crack of talk as well as most.”
The garrulous old fellow pushed him in with busy geniality and sat him down on the goatskin, which was his bed. Then he fetched what meat and wine he could furnish, and they sat down to a frugal meal.
“What, then, about this lord of yours?” said Ulysses. “I myself have wandered far these last years. Perhaps I may have met with him, and can give you news.”
The swineherd chuckled.
“Nay, if you love me,” he said, “none of that, my friend. Why, every dirty old man as comes along this way has some such tale to tell. And then my poor lady up in the palace—the gods save her!—she takes them in and gives them a new cloak or what not, and believes all they say until the next one comes along. No! my dear lord is dead and never shall I look upon the like of him again. By Zeus! but he was a man if you like!”
“Well, my host, we shall see in the future,” said Ulysses, in so significant a tone that the swineherd was startled for a moment.