When day dawned he dressed and buckled on his sword, and told heralds to call the lords to a council meeting.  When all were assembled he went into the hall.  In his hand he carried a bronze spear, and two of his hounds followed him, and when he went up to his father’s seat and sat down there, the oldest men gave place to him.  For Athene had shed on him such a wondrous grace that he looked like a young god.

“Never since brave Odysseus sailed away to Troyland have we had a council meeting,” said one old lord.  “I think the man who hath called this meeting is a true man—­good luck go with him!  May the gods give him his heart’s desire.”

So good a beginning did this seem that Telemachus was glad, and, burning to say all that had been in his heart for so long, he rose to his feet and spoke.

Of the loss of his father he spoke sadly, and then, with burning words, of the cowardly wooers, of their feastings and revelings and wasting of his goods, and of their insolence to Penelope and himself.

When he had thus spoken in rage and grief, he burst into tears.

For a little there was silence, then one of the wooers said angrily: 

“Penelope is to blame, and no other.  For three years she has deceived us.  ’I will give you my answer when I have finished weaving this robe,’ she said, and so we waited and waited.  But now that three years have gone and a fourth has begun, it is told us by one of her maids that each night she has undone all she has woven during the day.  She can deceive us no longer.  She must now finish the robe, and tell us whom she will marry.  For we will not leave this place until she has chosen a husband.”

Then, once again, with pleading words, Telemachus tried to move the hearts of the wooers.

“If ye will not go,” at last he said, “I will ask the gods to reward you for your wickedness.”

As he spoke, two eagles flew, fleet as the wind, from the mountain crest.  Side by side they flew until they were above the place of the council meeting.  Then they wheeled about, darted with fury at each other, and tore with their savage talons at each other’s heads and necks.  Flapping their great wings, they then went swiftly away and were lost in the far distance.

Said a wise old man:  “It is an omen.  Odysseus will return, and woe will come upon the wooers.  Let us make an end of these evil doings and keep harm away from us.”

“Go home, old man,” angrily mocked the wooers.  “Prophesy to thine own children.  Odysseus is dead.  Would that thou hadst died with him.  Then thou couldst not have babbled nonsense, and tried to hound on Telemachus in the hope that he may give thee a gift.”

To Telemachus they said again: 

“We will go on wasting thy goods until Penelope weds one of us.”

Only one other beside the old man was brave enough to speak for Telemachus.  Fearlessly and nobly did his friend Mentor blame the wooers for their shamelessness.  But they jeered at him, and laughed aloud when Telemachus told them he was going to take a ship and go to look for his father.