He was unwilling to deceive his dear wife, but she was so determined to learn his name and origin that he was obliged to spin the same web of lies with which he had deceived the swineherd. He also told how he had seen Ulysses, twenty years before, in Crete, when he had called for him and Idomeneus on the journey to Troy. At this point the crafty Penelope, wishing to test his veracity, asked: “Worthy guest, if thou hast entertained my husband in thy father’s house, tell me how he was apparelled and who was with him then.” “I remember perfectly,” answered the beggar. “He wore a magnificent cloak of dark, shaggy wool, fastened with a golden bar across the breast. It bore a splendid embroidery of gold—a young roebuck seized by a dog—and most lifelike were the rigid dog and the struggling buck trying to free itself with its feet. A fine tunic of shining white wool peeped from under the purple mantle. He was a stately hero, and the women looked upon him with pleasure. I cannot remember all his attendants. Only the herald I remember, for he was a humpback, and I think they called him Eurybates. The hero loved him above all the others for his devotion.” “Yes, he was very fond of him,” said Penelope, sobbing. During the whole recital her tears had been flowing. “Yes, stranger, thou hast spoken the truth. I wove those clothes myself and fastened that clasp on them for an ornament. Ah! how handsome my good lord looked in those garments. Alas, how I have hoped for his return, how I have wept for him, and what I have suffered daily from the suitors thou canst not imagine.” Ulysses controlled himself with almost superhuman power. “Weep no more, most excellent of women. Let me rather finish my tale, for I still have much of comfort to tell thee. He for whom thou mournest will surely soon be here. I swear by Jove and by this hospitable hearth that I have told the truth and that all shall come to pass as I have said.” “Come, ye maidens! Honor this man in my house. Prepare a bed and covers for him, that he may rest in quiet and comfort,” said Penelope. “To-morrow morning ye shall bathe and anoint him, that he may take his place worthily among the men and partake of the feast at Telemachus’ side. And woe to them who shall insult or mock at him!” “Worthy lady,” answered Ulysses, “I have not been used to fine beds or soft covers since I left Crete; so let me remain here by the fire. And none of the maids shall touch me, unless it be that among thy household is some faithful old woman who hath suffered as much as I. Her I would allow to wash my feet.” “Dear guest,” answered Penelope, “I have such a faithful soul. She nursed my dear husband and was his servant from childhood. She shall wash thy feet. Good Euryclea, come hither and perform the long-neglected task. Think that it might be thy dear master whom thou didst so love to serve.”