He ceased; Telemachus, the mighty, heard And thus bespake his father at his side:—
“Refrain; smite not the guiltless with the sword; And be the herald, Medon, also spared, Who in our palace had the care of me Through all my childhood; if he be not slain Already by Philoetius, or by him Who tends the swine, or if he have not met Thyself, when thou wert ranging through the hail.”
He spake, and the sagacious Medon heard, As crouching underneath a throne he lay, Wrapped in the skin just taken from a steer, To hide from the black doom of death. He came From where he lay, and quickly flung aside The skin, and, springing forward, clasped the knees Of the young prince, and said in winged words:—
“Dear youth, behold me here; be merciful; Speak to thy father, that he put not forth His sword to slay me, eager as he is For vengeance, and incensed against the men Who haunt these halls to make his wealth a spoil, And in their folly hold thyself in scorn.”
He spake; the sage Ulysses smiled and said: