The Adventures of Ulysses the Wanderer Part 10

He turned to Ulysses. "Thank the G.o.ds, old fellow," he cried, "that I was near by. A little more and you would have been torn to pieces, and then you would be in an evil plight but I a worse! Dead would you be and past caring, but I should be disgraced. Heaven knows, I have enough trouble to bear. Here's my lawful master gone in foreign parts these long years--dead as like as not--and I sit here feeding swine for them that are but little better themselves. But come in, come in, old shrew. There's a bite of food for you within, which you need I make no doubt, and then you can tell me your story, for I am a lonely man now and like a crack of talk as well as most."

The garrulous old fellow pushed him in with busy geniality and sat him down on the goatskin, which was his bed. Then he fetched what meat and wine he could furnish, and they sat down to a frugal meal.

"What, then, about this lord of yours?" said Ulysses. "I myself have wandered far these last years. Perhaps I may have met with him, and can give you news."

The swineherd chuckled.

"Nay, if you love me," he said, "none of that, my friend. Why, every dirty old man as comes along this way has some such tale to tell. And then my poor lady up in the palace--the G.o.ds save her!--she takes them in and gives them a new cloak or what not, and believes all they say until the next one comes along. No! my dear lord is dead and never shall I look upon the like of him again. By Zeus! but he was a man if you like!"

"Well, my host, we shall see in the future," said Ulysses, in so significant a tone that the swineherd was startled for a moment.

The wind had arisen and it was a black stormy night so they went to rest early, and Eumaeus slept soundly till dawn. But all through the silent hours the brain of Ulysses worked like a shuttle in a loom.

At breakfast-time, while the swineherd was preparing the meal, the dogs began to bark loudly outside, but in a welcome manner, saluting one whom they knew.

Footsteps were heard crossing the yard, and a tall young man with the first down of manhood on his lip stood in the doorway.

Eumaeus dropped the bowls in which he had been mixing the wine with a sudden clatter and ran towards the stranger.

"My young lord," he cried, "oh, my young lord, the sight of you is a welcome one to weary eyes. Come within my poor place. This is but a poor old man who shelters with me for a day or two. Don't mind him, my lord."

It was Telemachus the son of Ulysses.

The king rose humbly and offered his seat to his son.

"Keep your place, old man," said the prince. "The swineherd will find me another. And who may you be, and what do you in Ithaca?"

Then Ulysses told him a long story. He said that he was a Cretan, and had fought at Troy and was now dest.i.tute and a wanderer.

"Could you not take him to the palace, my lord?" said Eumaeus.

"Perhaps he might find some work there."

"I will clothe him, and arm him with a sword, and give him a little to help him on his way," said Telemachus, "and that most gladly. But I cannot take him to the palace. The suitors would ill-use him because of his age, perhaps they would kill him for sport. I cannot restrain them; I am young; and what is one against so many? Moreover, so great is the hate they bear towards me, they would surely slay any guest of mine."

Then Ulysses rose from his seat and bowed. "Lord," he said, "if I may dare to speak and you will hear, I say foul wrong is wrought against you in your palace, and my blood rages when I think of it."

"Old fellow, you are right enough," said the boy, sadly. "Oh, for my dead sire! to sweep these dogs from Ithaca!"

"Yes, the king!" said Eumaeus, with a deep sigh.

Suddenly Ulysses saw the tall figure of Athene was standing by his side.

The other two were looking towards him, but could see nothing of her presence. The G.o.ddess looked at him with kindly eyes and touched him with her spear.

Telemachus and Eumaeus crouched trembling and speechless against the furthest side of the hut.

The bronze came back to the face of the king, his hair fell from his head in all its old luxuriance, his figure filled out, and he stood before them in his full stature and all the glory of his manhood.

Eumaeus fell upon his knees and covered his eyes with his hand.

"A G.o.d! a G.o.d!" he cried, "a G.o.d has come to us! Hail, oh Immortal One, guest of my poor homestead!"

Telemachus knelt also. "Oh, Divine stranger, a boon! Tell me of my dear father, if indeed he lives and knows of the peril of his house.

And will he ever come back to sit in his own chair and rule?"

Then Ulysses stepped to his son and caught him in his arms and kissed him.

"Telemachus! Telemachus!" he said, "no G.o.d am I, but your own dear father come home at last, and I am come with doom and death for the insolent ones about my board!"

And when they had all three mingled their happy tears, Telemachus said, "Father, I know how great a warrior you are, and all the world rings with the wisdom and valour of your deeds. But we two can never fight against so many. In all, the princes number a hundred and a score of men; and they are all trained fighting men, the best from Ithaca and all the neighbouring islands. We must have other aid."

"Comfort yourself, son," said Ulysses. "Aid we have, and the mightiest of all. Athene herself watches over my fortunes and will come in the hour of need. She has brought me hither and given me this disguise, and in all the coming contest her voice will help and her arm be for us. Should we need more aid than that?"

"Truly, my father," said the boy, "we are well favoured, and my heart leaps within me at what is to come."

As he finished speaking, once more the manhood of Ulysses left him and only a poor old beggar man stood before the swineherd and the prince.

"Now will we go to the palace," said Ulysses. "I shall seem but a poor old beggar man, and however the princes may ill-use me I shall do nothing till the time has come and we are ready, and I charge you, my son, and my good friend Eumaeus, that you do nothing to protect me however I am treated. You may check them by words if you can, but no more. And not even the queen herself must know that the king has come home again.

"And now let us go. The judge is set, the doom begun; none shall stay it!"

And the three went out from the hut over the mountain paths towards the palace.

The revel was at its height in the courtyard of the palace. Stone seats ran round the wall which enclosed the buildings. Over a low colonnade the orchard trees drooped into the court, and a huge vine trailed its weight of fruit over the marble.

The hot afternoon sun sent a vivid colour over everything. Beyond the palace the blue mountains towered into a sky of deeper blue. Purple shadows from the buildings lay upon the white marble, and the long light glittered on a great table piled with golden cups and bowls, holding the _debris_ of the feast.

A wild uproar and shouting filled the air.

The court was filled with whirling figures of men and girls half drunk with wine and excitement as they moved in the figures of a lascivious dance.

All the household girls were there with the suitors joining in the feast, and peals of laughter shivered through the sunny air.

Telemachus sat on a seat apart watching the revel with keen eyes.

There was a repressed excitement in his face and an eager regard. One of the girls noticed it as she strolled past. She was a slight, fair wanton creature with a mocking smile.

"How, Lord Telemachus?" she said, laughing lightly, "are you not going to join us in the fun? You make a sorry host indeed! Is not this your palace, and do you leave us without your countenance. Oh, shame upon you for a laggard youth when wine and kisses wait you."

She made an impudent grimace at him and flitted past. But a short time back he would have raged at this impudent salutation from a pretty slave girl who drew a confident strength from the protection of his enemies. But now he hardly heard her, but leant forward again in the att.i.tude of one who watches and waits.

Outside the palace gate, on the hot white road, two old men were approaching. One was the swineherd Eumaeus and the other a wandering beggar man.

Just by the threshold of the courtyard an old lean dog, very grey and feeble, lay upon a heap of dung in the sunlight. The mailed horse-flies hovered round him in swarms, but he seemed too weak to drive them away. As the beggar approached he threw his muzzle up into the air with a quick movement. His sightless eyes turned towards the advancing footsteps. With a great effort he scrambled to his feet. The lean tail wagged in tremulous joy, the scarred ears were p.r.i.c.ked in welcome.

He stumbled to the feet of Ulysses. When he touched him the old dog lay down in the dust and with a long sigh he died.