“Oh,” cried Penelope, stretching herself and rubbing her eyes; “silly woman, how canst thou wake me thus and with such a fairy tale? Wouldst thou deceive me with false hopes? Oh, I slept so sweetly! How canst thou play such a trick on me? Only thine age protects thee from my anger.” “I am not jesting, my daughter,” answered the old woman. “He is here, and with Telemachus’ aid has killed all the suitors. It happened whilst thou slept.” “Mother, tell me the truth! How could he come so quickly?” She had sprung up and hung about the old nurse’s neck with anxious glances. Euryclea laughed. “He has been in the house since yesterday and thou thyself hast spoken with him.” “What, Euryclea! The ragged old beggar?” “Indeed, yes. The beggar with the greasy wallet whom the suitors made sport of. If they had but known!” “Alas, mother, how disappointed I am. That is not my husband. No, that is not Ulysses.” “Not Ulysses? Child, you are strange. I knew it last evening when I washed his feet and recognized the great scar—you remember it—from the boar’s tusk. But he would not allow me to speak.” “It cannot be! It cannot be!” repeated Penelope. “But tell me what has happened?” And then Euryclea had to tell the whole story of what she had seen and heard of the horrible massacre. “Thy long-desired, beloved husband is below and awaits thee, daughter. Come quickly to embrace him.” “Ah, mother, do not rejoice too soon. Thou knowest how I long for Ulysses, but I know the gods. They often wander about over the earth to reward the good, surprise the wicked, and punish long-continued evils. If the suitors are really killed, it must have been by a god, whom my misery has touched. How could a mere man, even though he were stronger and bolder than Ulysses, undertake so unequal a task? I did indeed admire the stranger’s mind, but he did not remind me of Ulysses. No, that was not my vigorous, impetuous husband. But I will go and view the horrible scene and talk with my son. If the stranger is my husband I shall know him by secret signs. But if he is a god, as I believe, we will sacrifice before him and worship him.” They descended and entered the hall, where they found Ulysses sitting by the fire leaning against a pillar. He did not look up, but waited for what his wife would say. She sat opposite him a long time in silence. Sometimes, as she looked earnestly at him, she thought it was he; then when she looked upon his rags, she could not believe it. “Mother,” cried Telemachus, “hast thou no greeting for my father? Thou hast a heart in thy breast that is indeed harder than a stone.” “My dear son,” answered his mother, “thou dost me a wrong. I am dumb with astonishment. I cannot grasp the miracle and do not venture to address this wonderful man nor to look in his face. But if he is really my Ulysses, we shall soon recognize each other. We have secret signs between us that none others know.”