Polyphemus rose early, and after milking his flocks he laid hold of two more of the miserable captives, butchered them in the same manner, and made his breakfast on their warm, quivering bodies.  Then he drove forth his sheep and goats, pushing aside the door of rock, and set it back in its place, as a man sets the lid on a quiver.  They heard his wild cries, as he called to his flocks, and their loud bleatings as he drove them out to pasture; then the sounds grew fainter and fainter, and silence settled on the vast, shadowy cave.

Forthwith Odysseus began to devise means to escape from that murderous den, and avenge the slaughter of his friends.  As he peered about in the twilight, he caught sight of a mighty stake of green olive-wood, tall and stout as the mast of a twenty-oared galley,[1] which had been cut by the Cyclops for a staff, and laid aside to season.  Odysseus cut off about a fathom’s length, and with the help of his comrades made it round and smooth, and tapered it off at one end to a point.  Then he hardened the sharp end in the fire, and when it was ready he hid the rude weapon away under a pile of refuse.  Of the twelve who had followed him from the ship, there only remained eight; four of these were chosen by lot to aid him in his plan of vengeance; and Odysseus noted with satisfaction that they were the stoutest and bravest of the company.  All being now ready, they sat down to wait for the return of Polyphemus.

[Footnote 1:  Imitated, with characteristic amplification, by Milton, “Paradise Lost,” i. 292 (Satan’s spear).]

The setting sun was pouring his level rays through the chinks of the doorway when they heard the ponderous tread of the Cyclops approaching.  This time he drove the whole of his flocks into the cave, leaving the courtyard empty.  Having milked the herd, he laid hands on two of Odysseus’ comrades, and slaughtered and devoured them as before.  The moment had now come for Odysseus to carry out his design.  So he filled a wooden bowl with unmixed wine, and drawing near to Polyphemus addressed him thus: 

“Take, Polyphemus, and drink of this wine, now that thou hast eaten of human flesh.  I warrant that thou hast never tasted such a choice vintage as this, and I brought it as a gift to thy divinity, that thou mightest have pity, and let me go in peace.  Little did I dream to find thee so cruel and so wild.  Who in all the world will ever draw near to thee again, after the hideous deeds which thou hast wrought?”

Polyphemus took the cup and drained it to the bottom.  Then he rolled his great eye with ecstasy, as the last drop trickled down his monstrous gullet, and holding out the cup said with a sort of growling good humour:  “Give me to drink again, and make haste and tell me thy name, that I may bestow on thee a gift of hospitality to gladden thy heart.  I and my brethren have wine in plenty, for the earth gives us of her abundance, and the soft rain of heaven swells the grape to ripeness; but this is a drink divine, fit for the banquets of Olympus.”