ere he had enclosed a wide
space of ground with a stone fence defended at the top with brambles,
and in front by a palisade of oak. Within the fence were twelve styes,
and in each stye were fifty sows with their young. The boars had their
quarters outside the enclosure, and their number had been greatly
diminished by the constant demand for hog's flesh among the suitors.
Still, they reached the formidable total of three hundred and fifty--a
noisy and ravenous multitude.

It was no light task to provide shelter for nearly a thousand swine,
with their young; yet Eumaeus had undertaken this duty during his
master's long absence, without the knowledge of Laertes or Penelope.
And here he was sitting, on this sunny morning, cutting up a
well-tanned ox-hide to make straps for sandals, while four dogs, large
and fierce as wolves, prowled near at hand. Three of his helpers were
gone with the swine to their feeding ground, and the fourth had been
sent to the town with a fat hog for the wooers.

Suddenly the dogs rushed forward, baying furiously, and an old man in
tattered raiment appeared at the gate of the courtyard. It would have
gone hard with the stranger if Eumaeus had not promptly come to the
rescue, and driven the dogs off with a volley of stones. "Old man,"
said Eumaeus, as the dogs slunk away yelping, "it was well that I was
near, or thou hadst surely been torn to pieces, and brought shame on
me. I have trouble enough without that. Here I sit, fattening my
master's swine for other men's tables, while he wanders, perchance,
among strangers, in poverty and want. But come into my hut, and when
thou hast comforted thy soul with meat and wine thou shalt tell thy
tale of sorrow."

Odysseus (for he it was, though sorely disfigured) followed Eumaeus
into the hut, and sat down on a shaggy goatskin, which the swineherd
spread for him on a heap of brushwood. "Heaven bless thee," he said,
when he was seated, "for this kindly welcome!" "I do but my duty,"
answered Eumaeus. "The stranger and the beggar are sacred, by law
divine. 'Tis but little that I can do, who serve young and haughty
masters, in the absence of my true lord, who would have rewarded me
nobly, and given me a plot of ground and a wife, had he been here to
see how Heaven blesses the work of my hands. But he is gone to swell
the host of those who fell in Helen's cause. Cursed be she, and all
her race, for she hath robbed me of the kindest master that ever man
served.