But while they were talking, a dog who was lying there lifted his head and pricked his ears.  It was the hound Argus, whom Ulysses had reared himself long ago before the war, but had to leave behind when he went away to Troy.  Once he used to follow the hunters to the chase, but no one cared for him now when his master was away, and he lay there covered with vermin, on a dung-heap in front of the gates.  Yet even so, when he felt that Ulysses was near him, he wagged his tail and dropped his ears; but he had not strength enough to drag himself up to his master.  And when Ulysses saw it, he turned away his face so that Eumaeus should not see the tears in his eyes, and said, “Eumaeus, it is strange that they let that dog lie there in the dung.  He looks a noble creature, but perhaps he has never been swift enough for the chase, and they have only kept him for his beauty.”

“Ah, yes!” Eumaeus answered, “it is easy to see that he has no master now.  If you had been here when Ulysses went to Troy, you would have wondered at the creature’s pace and strength.  In the thickest depth of the forest no quarry could escape him, and no hound was ever keener-scented.  But now he is old and wretched and his lord has perished far away, and the heedless women take no care of him.  Slaves can do nothing as they ought when the master is not there, for a man loses half his manhood when he falls into slavery.”

Then Eumaeus went on into the palace and up to the hall where the suitors were.  But Argus had seen his master again at last, and when he had seen him, he died.

As soon as the swineherd came in, Telemachus caught sight of him, and beckoned him to a stool at his side, and gave him his share of the feast.  After a little while Ulysses came up too, and sat down on the threshold like a poor old beggar-man.  Then his son sent him meat and bread by the swineherd, and said that a beggar should be bold, and he ought to go among the princes and ask each man for a dole.  So he went round from one to the other, stretching out his hand for a morsel in the true beggar’s way.  And every one else felt some pity and gave him an alms, but Antinous mocked at them all and told them they were ready enough to be generous with another’s wealth.  And at last he grew angry and cursed Ulysses for a whining rascal, and hurled a footstool at his head, bidding him begone and trouble them no more.  The stool struck Ulysses on the shoulder, but he stood like a rock, motionless and silent, with black thoughts in his heart.  Then he went back straight to the threshold and sat down and spoke to all the company:—­

“Listen to me, my lords!  No man bears any rancor for a blow in open war, but Antinous has struck me because I am a beggar and know the curse of hunger.  If there be any gods who avenge the poor man’s cause, I pray that he may die before his marriage day!”

At that the others felt shame, and told Antinous he did wrong to strike the homeless wanderer.