So spoke she; and Penelope was glad, and, springing from her bed, fell on the woman’s neck, and let the tears burst from her eyes; and, speaking in winged words, she said,—­

“Nay, tell me, then, dear nurse, and tell me truly; if he is really come as you declare, how was it he laid hands upon the shameless suitors, being alone, while they were always here together?”

Then answered her the good nurse Eurycleia, “I did not see; I did not ask; I only heard the groans of dying men.  In a corner of our protected chamber we sat and trembled,—­the doors were tightly closed,—­until your son Telemachus called to me from the hall; for his father bade him call.  And there among the bodies of the slain I found Ulysses standing.  All around, covering the trodden floor, they lay, one on another.  It would have warmed your heart to see him, like a lion, dabbled with blood and gore.  Now all the bodies are collected at the courtyard gate, while he is fumigating the fair house by lighting a great fire.  He sent me here to call you.  Follow me, then, that you may come to gladness in your true hearts together, for sorely have you suffered.  Now the long hope has been at last fulfilled.  He has come back alive to his own hearth, and found you still, you and his son, within his hall; and upon those who did him wrong, the suitors, on all of them here in his home he has obtained revenge.”

Then heedful Penelope said to her, “Dear nurse, be not too boastful yet, nor filled with glee.  You know how welcome here the sight of him would be to all, and most to me and to the son we had.  But this is no true tale you tell.  Nay, rather some immortal slew the lordly suitors, in anger at their galling insolence and wicked deeds; for they respected nobody on earth, bad man or good, who came among them.  So for their sins they suffered.  But Ulysses, far from Achaia, lost the hope of coming home; nay, he himself was lost.”

Then answered her the good nurse Eurycleia, “My child, what word has passed the barrier of your teeth, to say your husband, who is now beside your hearth, will never come!  Your heart is always doubting.  Come, then, and let me name another sign most sure,—­the scar the boar dealt long ago with his white tusk.  I found it as I washed him, and I would have told you then; but he laid his hand upon my mouth, and in his watchful wisdom would not let me speak.  But follow me.  I stake my very life; if I deceive you, slay me by the vilest death.”

Then heedful Penelope answered her, “Dear nurse, ’tis hard for you to trace the counsels of the everlasting Gods, however wise you are.  Nevertheless, let us go down to meet my son, and see the suitors who are dead, and him who slew them.”

So saying, she went from her chamber to the hall, and much her heart debated whether aloof to question her dear husband, or to draw near and kiss his face and take his hand.  But when she entered, crossing the stone threshold, she sat down opposite Ulysses, in the firelight, beside the farther wall.  He sat by a tall pillar, looking down, waiting to hear if his stately wife would speak when she should look his way.  But she sat silent long; amazement filled her heart.  Now she would gaze with a long look upon his face, and now she would not know him for the mean clothes that he wore.  But Telemachus rebuked her, and spoke to her and said,—­