There is a wooden cup, the handiwork
Of some rough workman, and these kindling-sticks.

ULYSSES.

Thy inventory shows that he is here.

NEOPTOLEMUS.

Faugh! here are rags left in the sun to dry,
Full of the running of some putrid sore.

ULYSSES.

'Tis plain enough that here his dwelling is.
Himself, too, must be near; for how could one,
Lame with an ancient ulcer, travel far?
He has gone forth either for provender,
Or to bring home some herb which soothes his pain.
Send thy attendant to explore the coast,
Lest unawares I should fall in with him:
All Hellas were not such a prize as I.

NEOPTOLEMUS.

The attendant is despatched; watch will be kept.
Go on and tell me what thou dost desire.

ULYSSES.