opened his eyes, and thanked her silently with a smile of exquisite
sweetness. Removing the large leaves which shaded the contents of the
basket, she disclosed ripe figs and pomegranates, honeycomb and snow-white
curd, lying close to each other in tempting array. The stranger took of
each alternately, and the basket was well-nigh emptied ere his appetite
seemed assuaged.

The observant maiden, meanwhile, felt her mood strangely altered.

"So have I imaged Ulysses to myself," she thought as she gazed on the
stranger's goodly form, full of vigour, though not without traces of age,
the massive brow, the kindly mouth, the expression of far-seeing wisdom.
"Such a man ignorant of letters, and a contemner of Zeus!"

The stranger's eloquent thanks roused her from a reverie. The Greek tongue
fell upon her ear like the sweetest music, and she grieved when its flow
was interrupted by a question addressed directly to herself.

"Can a God feel hunger and thirst?"

"Surely no," she rejoined.

"I should have said the same yesterday," returned the stranger.

"Wherefore not to-day?"

"Dear maiden," responded he, with winning voice and manner, "we must know
each other better ere my tale can gain credence with thee. Do thou rather
unfold what thine own speech has left dark to me. Why the language of the
Gods, as should seem, is here understood by thee and me alone; what foes