“May the gods ever bless thee for these tidings!” said Penelope, springing from the couch, and throwing her arms round the nurse’s neck.  “But tell me truly, how did he with his single hand gain the mastery over such a multitude?”

“I saw not how it was done,” answered Eurycleia.  “I heard but the groans of the men as they were stricken, for I was shut up with the handmaids in the women’s chamber.  When it was over, he called me, and I found him standing among the slain, like a lion by his prey.  It was a sight to gladden thy heart.”

But Penelope’s first impulse of joyful surprise had passed, and a cold fit of doubt and distrust succeeded, “It cannot be!” she murmured; “some god has taken the likeness of my husband, and slain the wooers.”  Even when Eurycleia told her how she had discovered the scar, while washing the feet of Odysseus, she remained unshaken in her unbelief.  “The counsels of the gods,” she said, “are beyond our knowing, and they can take upon them disguises too deep for a poor woman’s wit.  But come, let us go and see the slaughtered wooers, and their slayer, whoever he be.”

II

Odysseus was sitting bowed over the fire, which shone redly on his face, as he leaned his head upon his hand.  He was still clothed in his beggar’s rags, and strangely disfigured by the magic power of Athene; while the red stains of slaughter, which still lay thick upon him, served to render his disguise yet deeper.  Small wonder then that Penelope hesitated long to acknowledge him for her husband, as she sat some way off scanning his features with timid yet attentive gaze, like one who strives to decipher a blurred and blotted manuscript.  More than once she started up, as if about to fall upon his neck; then the gleam which had lighted up her face died away, her arms drooped listlessly at her side, and she remained motionless and cold.

When this had lasted for some time, Telemachus, who was present, rebuked his mother in angry terms, saying:  “Fie upon thee, my mother! hast thou no heart at all?  Why holdest thou thus aloof from my father, who has come back to thee after twenty years of suffering and toil?  But ’twas ever thus with thee—­thou art harder than stone.”

“My child,” answered Penelope, “I am sore amazed; I cannot speak, or ask any question, or look him in the face.  But if this man be indeed my husband, he knows how to convince me, and scatter all my doubts to the winds, for there are secrets between us whereof no one knoweth, save only ourselves.”

Odysseus smiled at his wife’s caution.  “Not in vain,” he thought, “is she known to all the world as the prudent Penelope.”  Then, in order to give her time, he turned to Telemachus and said:  “Come not between my wife and me, Telemachus; we shall know each other in due season.  I have another charge for thee, and do thou mark heedfully what I shall say.  We have slain the noblest in the land, not one, but many, who leave a host of friends to take up their cause:  how then shall we escape the blood feud?  We had best look to it warily and well.”