But Eurycleia, whose suspicions were already aroused, was not thus to be evaded.  As she handled the limb her fingers felt the well-known mark, and she let the foot fall with a loud cry.  The vessel was overset, and the water ran over the floor.  Half laughing and half weeping, the old woman fell upon his neck.  “Thou art Odysseus, dear child!” she cried, “and yet I knew thee not till I had touched thee with my hands.”

[Illustration:  Odysseus and Eurycleia]

During all this scene Penelope had been sitting like one in a dream, lost in the memories awakened by the supposed beggar’s story.  The nurse now turned to rouse her from her reverie, and tell her the joyful news; but Odysseus, seeing her intention, pressed a heavy hand on her mouth, and, drawing her down to him with the other, said in a fierce whisper:  “Peace, woman, or I will slay thee!  Wouldst thou destroy him whom thou hast nursed at thine own breast?”

Eurycleia had now recovered from the shock of that sudden recognition.  “Fear me not,” she said, “I will be as secret as the grave.  But see, the water is all spilt; I go to fetch more.”  And so with a grave face, but a heart bounding with delight, the faithful old creature brought a fresh supply of water, and proceeded with the task of washing her master’s feet.

When he resumed his place by the fire, he found Penelope in a soft and pensive mood, and dwelling, as was her wont, on the sorrows of her widowed state.  “Friend,” she said, with a gentle sigh, “I will not keep thee much longer from thy rest, for the hour approaches which brings sweet oblivion to careworn hearts—­all save mine.  For the night brings me no respite from my woes, but rather increases them.  When the day’s duties are over, and all the house is still, I lie tossing ceaselessly, torn by conflicting doubts and fears.  E’en as the wakeful bird sits darkling all night long, and pours her endless plaint, now low and mellow, now piercing high and shrill, so wavers my spirit in its purpose, and threads the unending maze of thought.  Sweet home of my wedded joy, must I leave thee, and all the faces which I love so well, and the great possessions which he gave into my keeping?  Shall I become a byword among the people, as false to the memory of my true lord?  Yet how can I face the reproaches of my son, who since he is come to manhood grows more impatient day by day, seeing the waste of his wealth, of which I am the cause?

“But I wished to ask thee concerning a dream which I had last night.  There are twenty geese which I keep about the house, and I take pleasure in seeing them crop the grain from the water trough.  In my dream I saw a great eagle swoop down from the mountains and slay them all, breaking their necks, There they lay dead in one heap; and I made loud lament for the slaying of my geese, so that the women gathered round me to comfort me.  But the eagle descended again, and alighted on a jutting beam of the roof, and thus spake unto me with a human voice:  ’Take comfort, daughter of Icarius; no dream is this, but a waking vision, which shall surely be fulfilled.  The geese are the wooers, and I the eagle am thy husband, who will shortly come and give them to their doom.’  Even as he said this I awoke, and going to the window I saw the geese by the door, cropping the grain from the trough, as is their wont.”