“Twas a sad fate for one of thy tender years,” remarked Odysseus, when Eumaeus had finished his story.  “Nevertheless thou wast happy to find such a master—­happier far than I, who am still a vagabond and a wanderer in my old age.”

The Meeting of Telemachus and Odysseus

I

Early next day Eumaeus and Odysseus were preparing their morning meal, when they heard the sound of footsteps approaching the hut.  The hounds pricked up their ears at the sound, and ran fawning round the new-comer, who was evidently well known to them.  Odysseus called to Eumaeus, who was busy drawing wine, and said:  “Some friend of thine is coming; for the dogs fawn upon him, and bark not.”

Even as he spoke, a tall figure appeared in the open doorway, and his own dear son stood before him.  Eumaeus sprang up amazed, and let fall the pitcher into which he had been drawing the wine.  Then with a cry of joy he ran to greet his young lord, kissed his hands and his face, and wept over him.  Even as a father yearns over his only son, just returned from abroad after a ten years’ absence, so Eumaeus yearned over Telemachus, and hailed him as one returned from the dead.  “Thou art come, Telemachus,” he faltered at last, when his emotion suffered him to speak, “thou art come back again, dear as mine own life!  Ne’er thought I to see thee again, after thou wast gone to Pylos.  Sit thee down, that I may feast mine eyes upon thee; seldom dost thou come this way, but abidest in the house, to watch the wasteful deeds of the wooers.”

Odysseus, in his character of beggar, rose respectfully from his seat, to make room for the young prince, but Telemachus motioned him to resume his place, and sat down himself on a heap of brushwood, on which the swineherd had spread a fleece.  While Eumaeus was bringing bread and meat, and filling the cups with wine, Telemachus questioned him as to his mother, and learnt that no change had occurred in her relation to the wooers since he left Ithaca.  Breakfast being over, Eumaeus, in answer to his inquiry, told him the story of the supposed stranger.  “I have done what I could for him,” he added, when he had repeated what he had heard from Odysseus.  “Now I deliver him unto thee, to do with him as thou wilt; all his hopes are in thy grace.”

“What can I do?” answered Telemachus, in perplexity.  “Thou knowest that I am not master in my own house, and my mother is torn between two purposes:  whether to wait still in patience for her lord’s coming, or to choose a new husband from the noblest of the suitors.  Neither she nor I can give protection to such a guest as this.  Therefore I will bestow upon him a new cloak and doublet, with sandals for his feet, and arm him with a good sword, and send him whithersoever he chooses to go.  Or if thou art willing, thou canst keep him here with thee, and I will send down food and raiment for him, that he may not be a burden to thee and thy men.  But I will not allow him to go among the wooers, and suffer ill-treatment which I have no power to prevent.”