ight had not yielded to day when Odysseus awoke from his
trancelike sleep, and gazed in bewilderment around him. His senses had
not yet fully come back to him, and after his twenty years' absence he
knew not where he was. All seemed strange--the winding paths, the
harbour, the cliffs, and the very trees. With a cry of dismay he
sprang to his feet, and cried aloud: "Good lack, what land have I come
to now, and who be they that dwell there? Are they savage and rude, or
gentle and hospitable to strangers?" Then his eye fell on the gifts
which had been brought with him from Phaeacia. What was he to do with
all this wealth? "Now this is a sorry trick which the Phaeacians have
played me," he muttered again, "to carry me to a strange land, when
they had promised to convey me safe to Ithaca."

So unworthily did Odysseus deem of his benefactors that he fell to
counting his goods, for fear lest they should have carried off a
portion of the gifts while he slept. He found the tale complete, and
when he had finished counting them he wandered disconsolate along the
sand, mourning for the country which he thought still far away. As he
went thus, with heavy steps and downcast eyes, a shadow fell across
his path, and looking up he saw a fair youth, clad and armed like a
young prince, who stood before him and smiled in his face with kindly
eyes. Glad to meet anyone of so friendly an aspect, Odysseus greeted
him, asked for his countenance and protection, and inquired the name
of the country.

"Either thou art simple," answered the youth, "or thy home is far
away, if thou knowest not this land. It is a place not unknown to
fame, but named with honour wherever mortal speech is heard. Rugged
indeed it is, and unfit for horses and for chariots, but rich in corn
and wine, and blessed by the soft rain of heaven. On its green
pastures roam countless flocks and herds, and streams pour their
abundance from its forest-clad hills. Therefore the name of Ithaca is
spoken far and wide, and hath reached even to the distant land of
Troy."

The wanderer's heart burned within him when he heard his dear native
island described with such loving praise. But dissembling his joy he
set his nimble wits to work, and began to spin a fine fiction for the
stranger's ear. "I have heard of Ithaca," he said, "as thou sayest,
even in Troy, where I fought under Idomeneus, King of Crete. And now I
am an exile, flying from the vengeance of Idomeneus, whose son,
Orsiloc