While the suitors were feasting in the hall, Penelope had gone with two of her maidens to the upper chamber, where all the most valued possessions of the house of Odysseus were stored. Here were chests full of beautiful garments, and precious vessels in abundance, of gold and bronze, which had been received as presents from strangers, and were put by, ready to be given again in like manner. Here too was the great bow of Odysseus.

It had been given to him by a famous archer who himself inherited it from great men long since dead, and Odysseus had set great store by it and never took it with him when he went away to war, but only used it at home for performing feats of strength and skill in archery. It was kept in the upper chamber, in a wooden case which hung from a nail in the wall.

Penelope took down the case, and, seating herself, she opened it, and her tears fell as she looked at the bow, which reminded her of the happy time long ago when her husband was by her side. Presently, however, she checked herself and went down to the hall, carrying the bow and the quiver full of arrows, whilst her maidens followed with the twelve axes that belonged to it.

The suitors were astonished when they saw the queen standing in the doorway with the bow in her hand, and all were silent. She said to them, “Ye sue for me and will that I should choose one of you for my husband. Very well then, prove to me which is the best man among you. Whichever of you can the most easily stretch the string over this bow, which Odysseus loved to use, and shoot his arrow without fail through the handles of the twelve axes, him will I accept as my husband and will accompany to his house.”

She gave the bow and arrows, as she spoke, to Eumaeus, and told him to take them to the suitors. At the sight of the favorite bow of their master, both he and Philoetius were constrained to weep, but Antinous spoke roughly to them, saying, “Why do ye thus weep, making the heart of the queen heavier than it is already? Either cease to behave like women, or else leave the hall.” Then, turning to the suitors, he added, “We will all make trial of the bow, but it will be no easy matter to stretch the string across it. Not every man can do as Odysseus did.” But in his heart he hoped that he himself would succeed.

Which was the harder, to stretch the string over the bow or to shoot straight through all the twelve axe handles, it is difficult to say; both alike were feats only to be accomplished by a master hand. In those days it was customary, if a bow were not going to be used for some time, to unfasten one end of the string in order to save the strain upon it, and, when the bow was again needed, it was necessary to bend it down and at the same time stretch the string until the loop at the end had caught the hook at the extremity of the bow. The stronger the bow, the harder it was to bend, and the bow of Odysseus was of quite exceptional strength.

While the suitors were looking at the bow, Telemachus said, “I am astonished at myself. My dear mother proposes to leave the house, and yet this causes me no pain. But let me first myself make trial of the bow. If I am able to shoot even as my father, then can I also protect his house, and there is no occasion for my mother to leave it.”

As he spoke, he laid aside his sword and mantle and began to prepare the hall for the contest. In order that the axes might be placed correctly, he first drew a narrow straight line from the door to the opposite wall, and along this line dug a trench in which to set them. The floor of the hall was not of wood, but was simply made of earth well flattened down.

Telemachus placed the axes in the trench at equal distances and stamped down the earth around them, that they might stand securely. When he had finished, he took the bow and tried to string it. Three times he put forth his utmost strength, and each time he came a little nearer to success. The fourth time he might have done it, but his father beckoned to him to try no more, and Telemachus put down the bow, saying to the suitors that he was too weak to bend it. He asked if either of them would undertake to do better, and Antinous said that they should all try their luck, one by one, in the order in which the wine was passed around.

The first of the suitors who made the attempt quickly perceived that he would never be able to string the bow and said despondingly, “There is not one of us but will have to go elsewhere in search of a wife.”

But Antinous upbraided him and replied that, though he might be too weak, there were better men than he among the suitors, who would not fail to accomplish the task. He thought it well, nevertheless, to bid Melanthius kindle a fire and fetch a ball of lard, with which to grease the bow and make it more pliable. After this, one suitor after another made trial of the bow, putting forth his utmost strength, but all in vain.

At Sparta also it happened that Telemachus arrived just when a feast was taking place. The king was celebrating the marriage of his two children: the son had chosen a Spartan maiden for his bride, and the daughter was wedded to Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles.

When the two strangers drew up their chariot in front of the open door of the palace, the relatives and friends were already assembled at the wedding feast, and one of the king’s companions said to him, “Shall I invite the two strangers whom I see arriving into thy house? Or shall I direct them to seek for shelter elsewhere in the city?”

“How canst thou ask such a foolish question?” replied Menelaus, looking at him with astonishment and indignation. “Where is the man who more often than myself has been entertained with kindness and hospitality by strangers in strange lands, or to whom it would be a greater disgrace to turn away the guests that come to his door? Bid them unharness the horses, and ask the strangers to come in.”

The companion conducted Telemachus and Pisistratus into the hall, and much they marveled as they looked around upon the shining walls. They were first refreshed with a warm bath and then invited to seat themselves at the table and partake of the banquet. Menelaus gave them a hearty welcome and pressed them to eat; he even with his own hands passed over to them a part of the ox chine which had been placed before himself as the best portion.

Telemachus bent towards Pisistratus and said to him in a low voice, “See, Pisistratus, how the walls glitter with gold and silver and ivory; it is as if one were looking at the sun or the moon. The hall of Zeus himself cannot be more beautiful.”

Menelaus, who had overheard him, turned towards him with a smile. “Pear youths,” he said, “what mortal can be compared to Zeus? But whether any other man lives in the midst of such splendor as myself I know not, for I have traveled about much in the world, and many rich presents have I brought home with me. Yet have I but little pleasure in them, for, while I was wandering in strange lands, my brother was slain by treachery, and many of my dear friends have also died. How willingly would I content myself with a third of my treasures, if those brave men were but alive! Often I think of them with tears in my eyes, and for none do I grieve more than for my beloved Odysseus; when I think of him, it takes from me all enjoyment of food or of sleep. He alas! has never returned to his home, and who knows whether he is yet alive? How sadly must his aged father mourn for him, and his wife also, and Telemachus, his dear son!”

When Telemachus heard the king speak thus of his father, the tears rose to his eyes, and he held his mantle before his face that he might weep in secret. Menelaus observed him and was going to ask him his name, but just then his wife Helen entered the hall. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and for her sake many heroes had perished on both sides in the great war of Troy. She was accompanied by a number of waiting women, one of whom carried a beautifully wrought chair, and another a white covering for the chair; a third held a silver basket with wool in it —a lovely present that had been made to the queen when she was in Egypt— and also a golden spindle for her work.

When Helen had seated herself, she said to Menelaus, “Do we know as yet the names of our guests? One of them I think I can recognize. It must be Telemachus, the son of Odysseus, for never have I seen so striking a likeness as the resemblance he bears to that noble hero.”

“Now I also perceive it,” cried Menelaus. “Just so were the feet and hands of Odysseus, and the glances of his eye, and also his head and hair. And when I spoke just now of Odysseus, the youth was moved to tears.”

Then Pisistratus said, “Thou art right; it is indeed Telemachus. In his modesty, he did not venture to address thee, the man like unto the gods, seeing that this is the first time he has entered thy house. But it is on purpose to seek thee that he has come hither, and my father Nestor sent me to accompany him on his journey.”

At hearing this, Menelaus was greatly moved, and he said, “There abides then under my roof the son of the man whom, of all the heroes that joined the war, I have loved the most. How often did I rejoice at the thought that, when we reached home in safety, I would induce Odysseus to come and settle in my neighborhood with all his household! Here would I have placed a village at his disposal, that I might often enjoy the society of my trusted friend — and then nothing could have marred our love and our happiness but the black cloud of death. But the gods, alas! have been unwilling that our cup of joy should be filled so full, and have cut off his return.”

Then were they all very sorrowful; Helen wept, and Telemachus and Menelaus, and Pisistratus thought of his brother Antilochus, who had fallen in the war, and wept also. But presently Helen fetched a charm, called Forgetfulness of Grief, which had once been given her by an Egyptian woman, and threw it into the goblet of wine. Whoever drank of that draught might lose his father and mother, yea, he might see his son or his brother murdered before his very eyes, yet for a whole day would he feel no sorrow.

When everyone had become cheerful again, Helen related an instance of the courage and coolness of Odysseus during the siege. “One day,” she said, “Odysseus scourged his back until it was covered with blood; then he put on a beggar’s dress and stole into the city. No one guessed who the beggar was, for well he knew how to dissemble. I alone recognized him, but he cunningly evaded my questions, and only when I had brought him into my house, where I caused him to be bathed and anointed, and had sworn by all the gods that I would not betray him until he was safely back in the camp of the Greeks, would he tell the purpose for which he had come. On his way back, as he was passing out of the gate of the city, he held a sword concealed under his clothes, with which he cut down a number of the Trojans. The women of the city mourned, but I rejoiced in my heart, for my mind had already righted itself; I was longing for my home and bewailed the fatal magic which had caused me to leave my beloved country and my daughter and my noble husband.”

Menelaus presently called to mind another case in which Odysseus had excelled all his companions in sagacity and presence of mind. “I have indeed known many men,” said he, “but never have I met with one who was the equal of Odysseus. When we heroes were in the wooden horse, it was doubtless under the inspiration of one of the gods who protected the Trojans that thou earnest, Helen, out of the city with one of the king’s sons, to look at it. Three times didst thou go around the horse, calling to all the heroes, one after the other, imitating the voices of their wives. So well did it succeed that all but Odysseus believed their wives to be really there, and were about to betray their hiding place. But he, with weighty words, held them back from this folly, and when one of the heroes was, notwithstanding, about to answer his wife, he seized him by the throat and held him until thou wert safely out of the way.”

It was now bedtime, and the two young men spent the night in the cool corridor, where Helen had caused couches to be prepared for them.

Odysseus now remembered how often the wise goddess Athena had come to his aid by putting into his mind some subtle device, and he offered up a prayer, imploring her to help him in this time of need. Presently the answer was given, and he exclaimed aloud with joy that an idea had come to him. He at once set to work to carry it out and, finding in the cave an olive tree as tall and strong as a ship’s mast, which the Cyclops had brought in sometime before to use as a club, he cut a piece off it from the thin end, about the height of a man. His men helped him to peel off the bark and sharpen one end to a point; he then put it into the fire and, when it was red-hot, he took it out and put it away, ready for use. With this pole he intended to put out the eye of his cruel host, and, as he would require the help of four of his men, he told them to draw lots to see which of them should have the honor of taking part in the deed; happily, the lots fell to the very men that Odysseus would himself have chosen for the purpose.

At night the Cyclops returned with his flocks and, contrary to his usual custom, he drove the rams and he-goats into the cave, as well as the ewes and she-goats. Otherwise, everything happened as on the previous evening: the sheep and goats were milked, the fire was kindled, and two more of the Greeks were devoured.

Then Odysseus stepped forward, holding toward the giant a huge wooden bowl which he had filled with wine from his skin. “Here, Cyclops,” said he, “drink this wine after thy meal of human flesh. I brought it with me as a present for thee, hoping that thou wouldst have pity on us and help us to return to our home. But thou hast bitterly disappointed our hopes. Foolish man that thou art, will anyone again bring thee such a gift, when it is known how thou hast treated us?”

The giant seized the bowl, and his monstrous face beamed with pleasure as he drank it off and smacked his lips after the draught. “Friend,” he said, “give me more and tell me thy name, and I will give thee something in return that will rejoice thy heart. Among us Cyclops the vine indeed grows, but not such as makes wine like this. This tastes verily like the nectar and ambrosia which sustain the gods. More, give me more.”

Odysseus filled the bowl a second time, and again at the giant’s desire a third time. The strong wine had now done its work, and the giant’s senses were dulled and confused.

“Dost thou ask my name, Cyclops?” said Odysseus. “My name is Noman. That is how I am called by my father and mother and friends.”

“Good,” answered Polyphemus. “This then shall be my present to Noman in return for the wine — that I will devour him last of all, when all his companions have perished.” And almost as he spoke, his head fell back, and he was fast asleep.

Now was the time for Odysseus to bestir himself, and he quickly brought out the pole that he had prepared and held it in the fire till it was red-hot; then he beckoned to his four companions to come and help him, and, taking careful aim with the point, he thrust it right into the center of the giant’s eye. The others then seized it by the lower end, and all five worked it round and round with all their might till the eye was quite burned out.

Polyphemus roared out with the agonizing pain until the rocks re-echoed as if it were thundering, and nimbly the Greeks sprang out of his way, as he drew the pole from his eye and dashed it into fragments against the wall of the cave. The giant then cried for help to the Cyclops who lived on the neighboring hills. “Help, help, ye Cyclops; come to my help,” he shouted through the still night.

When the Cyclops heard his cry, they hastened to the cave and called out to him to know what was the matter. “Is someone trying to rob thee of thy flocks? Or to murder thee by craft or by might?”

“Woe is me!” shouted back Polyphemus from within the cave. “Noman is murdering me by craft; there is no might in the case.”

Then one of them answered, “If no one is using craft or might against thee, it must be that Zeus has afflicted thee with some sickness. Pray to thy father Poseidon, perchance he may be able to help thee.” And with these words they went away — while Odysseus laughed in his sleeve to think how cunningly he had deceived the giant.

For some time longer, Polyphemus continued to cry and groan, but after a while he felt along the wall with his hands till he came to the great stone that blocked up the entrance of the cave; this he threw aside, and seated himself in the opening, with both hands stretched out to prevent anyone from passing without his knowledge. He thought in his simplicity that the Greeks would have the imprudence to hurry to the door in the hope of making their escape, and pleased himself with the prospect of tearing them limb from limb when they should fall into his hands, but Odysseus had already foreseen this danger and had devised a plan for avoiding it.

That night, the strong he-goats had been fortunately housed inside the cave, and for each of his companions Odysseus tied three of these together with rushes: the man was fastened underneath the body of the middle goat, and the two others were placed one on each side as a further protection, so that, when they passed out, the giant should not discover what had been done. Odysseus himself mounted a stately ram, the finest in the whole herd, who had long thick fleeces of wool that stood out far beyond his body; he swung himself underneath the body of this creature and, thrusting his hands and feet far down into the wool, he pressed his knees against the sides of the ram, and thus managed to hold on.

In this fashion they waited impatiently for the morning. At last, the time came when the flocks were accustomed to leave the cave for their pasture, and the he-goats began to put themselves in motion. As they went by, the giant felt each one of them with both hands, for he thought that his enemies would very likely be on their backs, but little did he suspect the cunning manner in which one after another was carried past him.

Odysseus had kept back his ram to the last, but, when he made his appearance, the giant recognized him by the touch, for he was his favorite animal. He stroked him and talked to him in a caressing tone: “How now, my trusty ram,” said he, “how comes it that today thou art the last of all — thou who hast always been the first in the sweet meadow, the first at the brook, the first in the stall? Surely it must be that thou grievest because the villain Noman has blinded thy master after befooling him with wine. But he shall not escape me. If thou couldst speak and tell me in what corner he has hidden himself, what joy it would give me to seize him and dash him against the rocks!”

Again he tenderly stroked the ram’s white back and then let him go. And thus all the Greeks were rescued from the clutches of the monster.

When they had gone some little distance from the cave, Odysseus released his ram and freed his companions from their bonds; then they drove the herds by a circuitous route to the ship. Their companions were overjoyed at seeing them again, but they would have broken out into loud lamentations at hearing that six of their number had been devoured by the Cyclops, had not Odysseus motioned to them to be silent lest the sound of their mourning should reach the ears of Polyphemus, and reveal to him where they were. They hurried into the ship as many of the animals as they had room for, unfastened the ropes by which their vessel was attached to the shore, and rowed away at their utmost speed.

When they had gone far enough from the island, Odysseus bade them halt and shouted back to Polyphemus, who was still sitting in the entrance of the cave, eagerly feeling about with his hands. “Cyclops,” he cried, “thou hast not been permitted to destroy the friends of the weak man, one and all; and thy wickedness has returned upon thine own head, abandoned monster, who didst not hesitate to devour thine own guests! It is for crimes like these that Zeus and the rest have punished thee.”

The giant sat for a moment rigid with rage when these words came to his ear from far over the sea, but presently he got up, broke off a huge mass of rock, and hurled it in the direction from which the voice had come. And so prodigious was his strength that the rock flew over the ship and fell into the sea beyond it with a force sufficient to make great waves that drew back the ship towards the shore again.

But seeing the danger, Odysseus seized a long oar which he drove into the bottom of the sea and held there, so as to check the course of the ship; then he called to his companions to take their oars again and row away as fast as possible from the island of the Cyclops.

He was not yet satisfied, however, and, when they had gone a little farther, he put up his two hands to his mouth so as to form a trumpet, in order to mock the Cyclops again from a safer distance. In vain his companions represented to him that he had already placed them in the greatest danger, and implored him to be silent; he could not resist his desire for one last word, and he called out, “Cyclops, when thou art asked who it was that blinded thee, thou canst say that it was Odysseus, the son of Laertes, king of Ithaca.”

At these words, Polyphemus sobbed aloud and said, “Thus then is the ancient oracle fulfilled. Long ago it was foretold to me that I should lose my eye at the hand of Odysseus. I thought he would have been a man far greater and stronger than I, but now a mere pigmy, a miserable weakling has blinded me with the help of wine. Come back again, my friend, and I will give thee a stranger’s present and will pray to Poseidon to convey thee in safety to thy home; for Poseidon is my father, and he can also, if he will, give me back my eye again.”

But Odysseus shouted back, “I would I were as certain of thine utter destruction as I am that Poseidon will never be able to heal thy hurt.”

When Polyphemus perceived that his flimsy stratagem had failed, he raised his hands to heaven and said, “Hear me, Poseidon. If I am indeed thy son, grant that Odysseus may never again see his native land; or, if it has been decreed otherwise, grant at least that he may reach it in misery, after many years, in the ship of a stranger, and without his friends, and that trouble and danger may await him in his home.”

Again he arose and, breaking off in his rage a still larger piece of rock than before, he hurled it with his utmost strength towards the ship. As before, it went straight towards its aim, but this time it fell short of the ship, which was now farther off, and the waves which it made carried the vessel away towards the island of goats.

When the Greeks arrived at the smaller island, they found their friends in great anxiety on account of their long absence, but all the more were they rejoiced that at least Odysseus himself and the greater number of his men had returned in safety. Odysseus divided the flocks which they had brought away with them, but the great ram to whom he owed his safety he kept for his own share and offered him up to Zeus as a thank offering for having been protected through such great perils.