A chill seemed to have fallen on the company after this shameful incident.  The wooers had ceased their clamour, and sat talking in low tones together; Odysseus and Telemachus sat silent in their places, brooding gloomily on the outrage; Antinous alone remained unmoved, being hardened, within and without, against all reproach.

When Penelope, who was sitting among her maidens in her chamber, heard how the stranger had been ill-treated, she cried:  “So may Apollo smite thee, Antinous, thou godless man!” “Ay,” said Eurycleia, “if prayers could slay them, not one of these men would see to-morrow’s dawn.”

“Go, one of you,” said Penelope, “and bring hither the swineherd.  I would fain speak with this stranger; who knows but he may have somewhat to tell me of Odysseus, my lord?” Eumaeus was summoned, and having heard the desire of Penelope, he answered:  “My queen, there is a rare pleasure awaiting thee.  This man hath a tongue to charm thy very soul.  Three days and nights he abode with me, and all that time he kept us spellbound by the tale of his adventures.  It was as if we were listening to the lay of some rare minstrel, a god-gifted man, who sways all hearts as he will by the magic of his voice.  And he brings sure tidings of Odysseus too, if we may believe what he says.”

“Call him hither,” answered Penelope, “that he may speak to me face to face.  If his news be true, we may yet see the day when these men shall pay a heavy price for their plunder of our house.”

As she spoke, a loud sneeze was heard in the room below.  “It was my son,” said Penelope, laughing, “I know it by the sound; and it is a sign that my words will be fulfilled.  Make haste now, and bring the stranger to me.”

Eumaeus went, and presently returned with a message from the supposed beggar, to say that he feared fresh violence from the wooers, if he left his place by the door and passed through them again.  The truth was that Odysseus feared recognition if he appeared before his wife in broad daylight; so he affected to complain of the indifference of Telemachus, who had allowed the savage deed of Antinous to go unpunished, and begged permission to wait until the evening, when the wooers would be gone home, and he could tell his story unmolested.

“He says well,” answered Penelope, when she had heard the message.  “And he seems to be a man of sense.  We will wait until evening, as he desires.”

The day was waning when Eumaeus returned to the hall, and the wooers had already begun their evening pastimes.  The swineherd went up to Telemachus, and said to him in a low tone:  “It is time for me to return to my farm, that I may give an eye to the things which I have in charge.  I leave thee to look to the house, and all that it contains; but above all be careful of thyself, for there are many here who wish thee ill.”

The Beggar Irus