When he heard his master’s voice he wagged his tail and tried to crawl near him.  But he was too feeble to move.  He could only look up with loving, wistful eyes that were almost blind, and thump his tail gladly.  So glad was he that his faithful heart broke for joy, and before Odysseus could pat his head or speak a kind word to him, old Argos rolled over dead.

There were tears in the eyes of Odysseus as he walked past the body of his friend.  He sat down on the threshold leaning on his staff, and when Telemachus sent him bread and meat from his table he ate hungrily.  When the meal was over he went round the hall begging from the wooers.  Some gave him scraps of broken meats, others called him hard names and bade him begone, and one of them seized a footstool and struck him with it.

But Odysseus still kept down the anger in his heart, and went back to his seat on the threshold with his beggar’s bag full of the scraps that had been given to him.

As he sat there, a common beggar, well known for his greed and impudence, came to the palace.

“Get thee hence, old man,” said he to Odysseus, “else I shall knock all thy teeth from thy head.”

More, too, he said, rudely and roughly, and at last he struck Odysseus.

Then Odysseus could bear no more, and smote him such a blow on his neck that the bones were broken, and he fell on the ground with blood gushing from his mouth.  Odysseus dragged him outside by the heels, and propped him, with his staff in his hands, against the courtyard wall.

“Sit there,” he said, “and scare off dogs and swine.”

The wooers laughed and enjoyed the sport, and gave gifts of food to the sturdy old beggar, as they took Odysseus to be.  All evening they feasted and drank, but when night fell they went to their own homes.

When they were gone Odysseus and Telemachus carried all the helmets and swords and sharp-pointed spears that stood in the hall, away to the armory and hid them there.

Then Telemachus went to his room to rest, but Odysseus sat in the hall where the servants were clearing away the remains of the feast.  While he sat there, Penelope came with her maids and rested on a chair In front of the glowing wood fire on which the servants had piled fresh logs.

She talked kindly and gently to the old beggar-man, and bade the old nurse bring water to wash his weary feet.

Now, once long ago, a wild boar that he hunted had torn the leg of Odysseus with his tusk, and as the old nurse washed his feet she saw the scar.  In a moment she knew her master, and cried out.  The brazen bath fell with a clang on the floor, and the water was spilt.

“Thou art Odysseus,” she said; “I did not know thee, my dear child, until I found the scar.”

Penelope must have heard her glad cry, had not Athene at that moment made her deep in thoughts of other things.  Quickly Odysseus bade the old nurse be silent, and the old woman obeyed him.