Hardly had they passed the outer point when they stopped rowing in wonder. High up above them was a great cave in the face of the mountain. Dense masses of laurel grew all about its entrance. In front was an enclosure, walled in by huge boulders and by massive trunks of tall pine and oak trees. Clearly this was the abode of some creature who kept flocks
and herds: but what sort of being must it be who could build such a colossal wall or need such quarters?
Odysseus bade his crew stay on the galley and guard it with their lives. Twelve men, upon whom he could rely, he picked to accompany him. In a goatskin bottle he carried his choicest offering—some of the dark sweet wine given him by the priest of Apollo at Ismaurus, in gratitude for his protection when they had despoiled the Ciconians; it had been reserved for the priest himself and two others only of his household, and so potent was it that, when a cupful was mixed with twenty times as much water, its aroma still filled the nostrils.
Cautiously the adventurer climbed up the ascent, followed by his twelve companions. No human being was in sight as they passed through the enclosure; but when they entered the cave, there were plentiful signs of recent habitation. On one side were pens filled with lambs and kids, the new-born in one, each older group to itself. Milking pails, huge bowls of milk set for cream, others of curd and of whey, and crates filled with cheeses stood all about, in vast size and profusion like everything else.
All they saw was so suggestive of an owner far outside the limits of ordinary men, that his followers at once besought him to make off with as many cheeses, lambs and kids as they could carry aboard, and to hasten quickly from that terrifying abode. But Odysseus refused. Confident in the powers of his tongue and sword, he resolved to await the return of this mighty cave-dweller, both to satisfy his own curiosity
and in the hope of receiving the customary gifts. Bitterly was he to regret his decision before many hours had passed.
Meanwhile, under his bidding, the Greeks kindled a fire, made burnt offering to the gods, and satisfied their hunger with some of the cheese. Then they sat about in the gloomy cave, awaiting its master's home-coming.
Everything combined to make them apprehensive, and the nerves of all save Odysseus soon became taut enough. Hardened as they had become to danger and the unknown, they started in spite of themselves at every sound from the forest and thicket outside. And each time they would cast sidelong glances at one another and at their unmoved leader, striving to appear as unconcerned as he.
The sun in the west had begun to throw a long slanting tongue of light through the rock portal when unmistakable evidence came to their ears. Amid the bleating of returning flocks, there sounded the regular beat of what could only be mighty footsteps—footsteps which made even the solid rock quiver, and for which only the sights about them could have prepared their minds. Nearer and nearer they came, and even those bronzed faces grew pale.
Suddenly the sunlight streaming into the cave was darkened by a vast shape. It did not enter, but tossed in the whole bole of a blasted pine, whose dry limbs crashed and splintered as it fell. The tumbling Greeks sprang back to a dark corner: even their awed imaginations had not conceived of such gigantic strength.