So they spoke in the house of Hades. Meanwhile Odysseus and his men left the town and came to Laertes's well-ordered farm, which the old man had won by his own toil. About the house ran a shed for the workers; inside, an old Sicilian woman cared for him.
Odysseus told his servants and his son: Go in and kill the best pig for dinner. I will try my father and see whether he knows me after so long. He gave them his armor; they went to the house. He turned into the orchard.
He found his father alone, digging about a vine — for Dolius and the others were gathering stones for a wall. Laertes wore a dirty patched tunic, oxhide leggings, gloves against thorns, and a goatskin cap, nursing his sorrow. Odysseus stood under a tall pear and wept, then decided to test him first with probing words.
Old man, he said, you tend this orchard with skill — not a plant lacks care. But you yourself are not well cared for: squalid with age, in miserable clothes. You look like a king who should sleep soft after bath and food. Whose slave are you? Whose orchard? And is this truly Ithaca? A man I met would not tell me clearly about a friend I once entertained — whether he still lives or is already in Hades.
I once hosted a man who said he was of Ithaca, son of Laertes son of Arceisius. I gave him gold and silver and clothing and skilled women. Never was a stranger more welcome.
Laertes answered, shedding tears: Stranger, you have come to that country — but wanton men hold it. Your gifts were given in vain. If you had found him alive he would have sent you on with gifts in return. How many years since you entertained that unfortunate man — my son, if he ever was? Far from friends and fatherland the fish or beasts have had him. Neither his mother nor I nor Penelope laid him out and mourned him as was due. Who are you, and from where? Where is your ship?