Hearing his father’s name, Telemachus wept and held his purple cloak before his eyes. While Menelaus pondered whether to question him, Helen came from her fragrant chamber looking like Artemis of the golden arrows. Adraste set a chair; Alcippe brought a soft rug; Phylo brought a silver basket with gold rims — a gift from Alcandre of Egyptian Thebes — full of yarn, the distaff with dark-blue wool upon it. Helen sat and asked:
“Do we know, Menelaus, who these men are? Shall I hit the truth? Never yet have I seen anyone so like Odysseus’s son Telemachus, whom that hero left a newborn when for my sake — shameless that I was — the Achaeans came under Troy.” Menelaus saw the likeness too — feet, hands, eyes, head, hair — and how the young man had wept at Odysseus’s name.
Peisistratus said it was truly that man’s son, too modest for hasty speech before Menelaus; Nestor had sent him as guide. Menelaus rejoiced: he would have settled Odysseus in Argos above all the Argives if Zeus had granted both a return — living near, entertaining each other until death. But a god had been envious and made that wretched man alone without a homecoming.
All wept — Helen, Telemachus, Menelaus. Peisistratus too remembered Antilochus, whom the Dawn’s son had killed. He asked them not to weep at supper; dawn would come soon enough. Menelaus praised his discretion — such a father Nestor was — and called for water on their hands again.