“I ask no fee,” answered the Wanderer, “and I fear no death, for in one way only shall I die, and that is known to me. Yet I will keep my oath.” And he bowed before Pharaoh, and leaping from his chariot entered again into the chariot of Rei.
Now, as he drove back through the host the soldiers called to him, saying:
“Leave us not, Wanderer.” For he looked so glorious in his golden armour that it seemed to them as though a god departed from their ranks.
His heart was with them, for he loved war, and he did not love the Apura. But he drove on, as so it must be, and came to the Palace at sundown.
That night he sat at the feast by the side of Meriamun the Queen. And when the feast was done she bade him follow her into her chamber where she sat when she would be alone. It was a fragrant chamber, dimly lighted with sweet-scented lamps, furnished with couches of ivory and gold, while all the walls told painted stories of strange gods and kings, and of their loves and wars. The Queen sank back upon the embroidered cushions of a couch and bade the wise Odysseus to sit guard over against her, so near that her robes swept his golden greaves. This he did somewhat against his will, though he was no hater of fair women. But his heart misdoubted the dark-eyed Queen, and he looked upon her guardedly, for she was strangely fair to see, the fairest of all mortal women whom he had known, save the Golden Helen.
“Wanderer, we owe thee great thanks, and I would gladly know to whom we are in debt for the prices of our lives,” she said. “Tell me of thy birth, of thy father’s house, and of the lands that thou hast seen and the wars wherein thou hast fought. Tell me also of the sack of Ilios, and how thou camest by thy golden mail. The unhappy Paris wore such arms as these, if the minstrel of the North sang truth.”
Now, the Wanderer would gladly have cursed this minstrel of the North and his songs.
“Minstrels will be lying, Lady,” he said, “and they gather old tales wherever they go. Paris may have worn my arms, or another man. I bought them from a chapman in Crete, and asked nothing of their first master. As for Ilios, I fought there in my youth, and served the Cretan Idomeneus, but I got little booty. To the King the wealth and women, to us the sword-strokes. Such is the appearance of war.”
Meriamun listened to his tale, which he set forth roughly, as if he were some blunt, grumbling swordsman, and darkly she looked on him while she hearkened, and darkly she smiled as she looked.
“A strange story, Eperitus, a strange story truly. Now tell me thus. How camest thou by yonder great bow, the bow of the swallow string? If my minstrel spoke truly, it was once the Bow of Eurytus of OEchalia.”