_Odyssey_, xvi. 162. We are next transported to the scene of the revellings of the Suitors, and the fortitude of Penelope. The sight of the once familiar turreted enclosure of his palace, and the sound of the well-remembered voice and lyre of the minstrel Phemius, proclaiming the progress of the festivities, all but overturned the equanimity of the counterfeit mendicant. His practised powers of dissimulation, however, came to his aid; and grasping the hand of his unsuspecting retainer, he brought, with a cunningly devised speech, his tell-tale emotion into harmony with his assumed character. They advanced to the threshold, and there, on a dung-heap, half devoured with insect parasites, lay a dog—the dog Argus. But we must allow the poet to tell the story in his own way. Thus as they spake, a dog that lay apart, Lifted his head, and pricked his list’ning ears, Argus, whom erst Odysseus patient bred, But use of him had none; for ere that day, He sailed for sacred Troy; and other men Had trained and led him forth o’er field and fell, To chase wild goats, hares, and the pricket deer. But now, his master gone, in foul neglect, On dung of ox and mule he made his couch; Fattening manure, heaped at the palace-gate, Till spread to enrich Odysseus’ wide domain; Thus stretched, with vermin swarming, Argus lay. But when he saw Odysseus close approach, He knew, and wagged his tail, and dropped his ears, Yet could not rise to fawn upon his lord, Who paused, and stood, and brushed aside a tear, Hiding his grief. Then thus with crafty speech: ‘Eumæus, sure ‘tis wonder in such plight To see this dog, of goodly form and limbs; But tell me did his fleetness match his shape, Or was he such as, reared for pride and show, Inactive at their masters’ tables feed?’ Eumæus heard, and quickly made reply: ‘To one who perished in a distant land This dog belongs. But couldst thou see him now Such as Odysseus left him, bound for Troy, Thou well might’st wonder at his strength and speed. ‘Mid the deep thickets of the forest glades, No game escaped his swift pursuing feet, Nor hound could match his prowess in the chace. But now his days are evil, since his lord Is dead, and careless women heed him not. For when the master’s hand no longer rules, Servants no longer work in order due. Full half the virtue leaves the man condemned By wide-eyed Zeus to drag the servile chain.’ Thus as he spake, he crossed the stately hall, And took his place amidst the suitors’ train. But Argus died; for dark doom ravished him, Greeting Odysseus after twenty years.[78] Footnote 78: