Odysseus, who had not seen his son since he was an infant, desired to learn something more of his mind and character; and in order to draw him into further speech he asked, with an air of indignation, who the wooers were, and how it was that he submitted to their violence.  “Is the public voice against thee,” he asked, “or art thou at feud with thy brethren, so that they will not help thee?  If I were in thy place I would fall upon them singlehanded, for it were better to die once for all than tamely to submit to such outrage.”

“Behold I will tell thee all the truth,” answered Telemachus. “’Tis neither by the consent of the people nor by the ill-will of my brethren, that this evil hath come upon me.  But Heaven hath ordained that the honours and the burden of our house should ever rest upon one alone.  Laertes, my grandsire, was an only son, and Odysseus was the sole issue of his marriage; and even so I am the only child of Odysseus.  Therefore I sit helpless and alone, at the mercy of this ruffian band.  But enough of this!  We have no hope left, save in the justice of Heaven.”  Then he turned to Eumaeus, and said:  “Make haste now, go down to the house, and tell Penelope that I have come back safe from Pylos.  Let none else hear it, but come back hither at once, when thou hast delivered thy message, and I will wait here until thy return.”

“Shall I not go to Laertes, and tell him also?” asked the swineherd.  “Since the day of thy departure he has tasted neither meat nor drink, but sits alone in his sorrow, and will not be comforted.”

“My mother can send a handmaid to inform him,” answered Telemachus.  “But as for thee, see that thou return here straightway, and lose no time.”

II

Soon after the departure of Eumaeus, Odysseus and Telemachus were sitting before the door of the hut, each lost in his own thoughts, when their attention was attracted by the strange behaviour of the dogs.  These animals, which had been lying basking in the sun, all at once started up with a stifled cry, and ran whining, with every sign of terror, to a distant corner of the courtyard.  “What ails the hounds?” said Telemachus, looking up in surprise.  But Odysseus was not long before he saw the cause of their alarm:  standing at the outer gate was a tall female figure, of majestic countenance, and more than mortal beauty.  Telemachus saw her not, but Odysseus instantly knew who she was, and, obeying a gesture of her hand, he rose from his seat and went out through the gate.  She led him to a place where they were out of hearing, and then said:  “It is time for thee to reveal thyself to thy son, that together ye may contrive destruction for the wooers.  When the hour of reckoning comes, I shall be near to aid you.”  Thereupon she touched him with her wand, and in a moment he was once more the old Odysseus, still in the full vigour of his manhood, dark and sunburnt, with thick black hair and curling beard.  His rags also had been replaced by fair clean raiment; and thus completely transformed he went back to the hut to reveal himself to Telemachus.  Athene, having done her part, had forthwith disappeared.