When Athene spoke to him so kindly and so hopefully, Telemachus told her all that was in his heart.  And when the wickedness and greed of the wooers was made known to her, Athene grew very angry.

“Thou art in sore need of Odysseus,” she said.  “If Odysseus were to come to the door now with lance in hand, soon would he scatter those shameless ones before him.”

Then she told Telemachus what he must do.

“To-morrow,” said she, “call thy lords to a council meeting, and tell the wooers to return to their homes.”

For himself, she told him to fit out a ship with twenty oars-men, that he might sail to a land where he should get tidings of his father.

“Thou art tall and handsome, my friend,” she said.  “Be brave, that even in days to come men may praise thy name.”

“Thou speakest as a father to a son.  I will never forget what thou hast said,” said Telemachus.

He begged Athene to stay longer, and wished to give her a costly gift.  But she would not stay, nor accept any present.  To Telemachus she had given a gift, though he did not know it.  For into his heart she had put strength and courage, so that when she flew away like a beautiful bird across the sea she left behind her, not a frightened, unhappy boy, but a strong, brave man.

The wooers took no notice of the comings and goings of the strange warrior, so busy were they with their noisy feast.  As they feasted a minstrel played to them on his lyre, and sang a song of the return of the warriors from Troyland when the fighting was over.

From her room above, Penelope heard the song, and came down.  For a little, standing by the door, she listened.  Then she could bear it no longer, and, weeping, she said to the minstrel: 

“Sing some other song, and do not sing a song of return from Troyland to me, whose husband never returned.”

Then Telemachus, in a new and manly way that made her wonder, spoke to his mother: 

“Blame not the minstrel, dear mother,” he said.  “It is not his fault that he sings sad songs, but the fault of the gods who allow sad things to be.  Thou art not the only one who hast lost a loved one in Troyland.  Go back to thy room, and let me order what shall be, for I am now the head of the house.”

In the same fearless, manly way he spoke to the wooers: 

“Ye may feast to-night,” he said; “only let there be no brawling.  To-morrow meet with me.  For once and for all it must be decided if ye are to go on wasting my goods, or if I am to be master of my own house and king in mine own land.”

The wooers bit their lips with rage, and some of them answered him rudely; but Telemachus paid no heed, and when at last they returned to their houses, he went upstairs to his own room.  The old woman who had nursed him when he was a child carried torches before him to show him the way.  When he sat down on his bed and took off his doublet, she folded and smoothed it and hung it up.  Then she shut the door with its silver handle, and left Telemachus, wrapped in a soft fleece of wool, thinking far into the night of all that Athene had said to him.