crew bend to their oars, and the galley leaps forward, like a mettled
steed who knows his master's voice. The setting sun is just gilding
the towers of the city as they cross the harbour bar. Swift as a
falcon the magic vessel skims over the swelling waters, and the
toil-worn hero lays him down to rest on a soft couch prepared for him
in the stern. Then a deep and deathlike sleep falls upon him, and he
lies breathing gently as an infant, while the soft southern breeze
plays with his dark clustering hair.

There is a certain haven in the island of Ithaca, protected by two
lofty headlands, leaving a narrow passage between them. Within, the
water is so still that ships lie there without moorings, safe and
motionless. At the head of the haven is a long-leaved olive-tree,
overshadowing a cool and pleasant cave, sacred to the "Nymphs called
Naiads, of the running brooks."[1] Inside the cave are bowls and
pitchers of stone, and great stone looms, at which the Naiads weave
their fine fabrics of sea-purple dye. It is a favourite haunt of the
honey-bee, whose murmurs mingled with the splashing of perennial
springs make drowsy music in the place. There are two gates to the
cavern, one towards the north, where mortal feet may pass, and the
other on the south side, which none may enter save the gods alone.

[Footnote 1: Shakespeare, "Tempest."]

The day-star was gazing on that still, glassy mere as the Phæacians
steered between the sentinel cliffs and drove their galley ashore in
front of the cave. They lifted Odysseus, still sleeping, from the
stern, and laid him down gently, couch and all, on the sand. Then they
brought all the rich gifts, and set them down by the root of the
olive-tree, out of the reach of any chance wayfarer; and having