Like a lion fresh from the slaughter stood Odysseus, leaning on his spear, and covered with blood from head to foot.  As he glared round him to see if any of his foes were still alive, his eye fell on Phemius, the minstrel, who was crouching in a corner near the side door, and clinging in terror to his harp.  Seeing the stern gaze of Odysseus fixed upon him Phemius sprang forward, with a sudden impulse, and threw himself at the conqueror’s feet, “Pity me, Odysseus,” he cried, “and spare me!  Thy days will be darkened by remorse if thou slay the sweet minstrel whom gods and men revere.  I am no common school-taught bard, who sings what he has learned by rote; but in mine own heart is a sweet fountain of melody, which shall be shed like the dew from heaven on thy fame, and keep it green for ever.  Therefore stay thy hand, and harm me not.  Telemachus, thy son, knows that it was not of mine own will, nor for greed of gain, that I sang among the wooers, but they compelled me by force, being so many, and all stronger than I.”

Thus appealed to, Telemachus readily confirmed what the minstrel had said, which was indeed the literal truth.  Then he thought of the trusty Medon, who had been kind to him when a child, and remained loyal to the last to him and Penelope.  “I trust he has not been slain among the wooers,” he said.  “Medon, if thou art still alive, come forth and fear nothing.”

When he heard that, Medon, who had been huddled in a heap behind a chair, covered with a freshly-flayed ox-hide, flung off his covering, and came running to Telemachus.  The poor man was still half-mad with terror.  “Here I am!” he gasped, with staring eyes, “speak to thy father, that he slay me not in his rage and his fury,”

Odysseus smiled grimly at the poor serving-man, and bade him be of good cheer.  “Live,” he said, “thou and the minstrel, that ye may know, and tell it also to others, how much better are good deeds than evil.  Now go ye forth and wait in the courtyard until I have finished what remains to be done.”  So forth they went, and sat down by the altar of Zeus, glancing fearfully about them, as if expecting every moment to be their last.

As soon as they were gone Odysseus walked slowly up and down the hall to see if any of the wooers still survived.  But there was no sound or motion, save the tread of his own feet, to break the awful stillness in that chamber of death.  There they lay, stark and silent, heap upon heap, like a great draught of fishes which have been hauled to shore in a drag-net, and have gasped out their lives on the beach.  Having assured himself that he had not done the work negligently, he bade Telemachus summon the nurse, Eurycleia.  Telemachus obeyed, and going to the door of the women’s apartments, he smote upon it, and called aloud to the nurse.  A moment after the bolts were drawn back, and Eurycleia entered the hall.  When she saw Odysseus standing among the heaps of slain wooers, she opened her mouth to utter a cry of triumph, but Odysseus checked her, saying:  “Hold thy peace, dame, and give not voice to thy joy:  it is an impious thing to exult over the dead.  They are the victims of heaven’s righteous law, and I was but the instrument of divine vengeance.  Tell me now which of the women in the house have dishonoured me, and which of them be blameless.”