The swineherd entered the house and was spied by Telemachus, who called him to his side where he was served with bread and meat. But Ulysses remained a while without to watch the faithful dog draw his last breath. Then he, too, entered the house and seated himself near the door in the hall.
At first the feasters did not notice him, but Telemachus sent him food. He laid it down upon the dirty wallet and ate, while the minstrel sang sweet songs to the music of his harp. When the singer had finished, Ulysses went among the suitors to collect alms, that he might discover which ones were kindly disposed and which were hard and cruel. Many gave to him pityingly and asked one another in surprise who the old man was and whence he came. “The swineherd brought him here,” cried Melantheus. “Who he is I know not.”
“Swineherd,” grumbled Antinous, “why didst thou bring this fellow to the city? I thought there were plenty of us already to eat up the absent master’s substance, and we could do without beggars.”
“Not seemly is thy speech, Antinous, although thou art noble,” answered the swineherd. “Thou wert always hard on Ulysses’ servants, and especially on me. However, I take no notice so long as Penelope and Telemachus live in this palace.”
“Hush, Eumæus,” interrupted Telemachus. “Thou knowest Antinous. If that is thy only scruple, Antinous, that the alms which thou givest the poor come from my store, do not refrain from giving. Neither my mother nor I begrudge them. But that is not thy real meaning. Thou wouldst rather use it all thyself.”
“Thou insolent young cub,” interrupted Antinous. “If each of the suitors would send him what I do, he would not enter the house again in three months.” He accompanied these words with a motion toward a footstool under the table, and was just going to throw it at the beggar’s head when a neighbor seized his arm.
Ulysses desired to tempt the ungovernable man further. He went up to him and begged an alms, and even tried to touch his heart by relating his wanderings and hardships. But Antinous harshly bade him begone, and Ulysses retired with the words: “Truly, Antinous, thy body and thy mind are not in harmony.”
“Was there ever such an insolent beggar!” cried Antinous angrily. “Now truly, thou shalt not leave the hall unpunished,” and with all his might he threw the footstool, which struck Ulysses’ shoulder. He stood firm as a rock, only shaking his head in silence, then returned to the gate and sat down, opening his wallet.
Telemachus could hardly contain himself, and even Penelope, who could hear all from her balcony, pitied the stranger whom she could not see. She desired Eumæus to conduct the strange man to her, that she might talk with him and supply him with fine raiment.
But he replied: “I should like nothing better than to see the queen, for I have much to tell her, but I fear the cruel suitors. Bid the noble Penelope wait for me in her apartments until the sun is set. Then she may question me about her husband’s return.” And he remained quietly sitting on the doorstep, while his guests, having no idea that he was really their host, amused themselves, after the banquet was over, with singing and dancing. How he longed to have them go, that he might at last see his dear wife once more. But before he did so he was to have another strange adventure.