After holding a council, the captains ordered their troops to
collect sticks, straws, dry weeds, and whatever combustible
stuff they could find, and make a pile of it, heaping it high
around the head of Hercules. As a great many thousand Pygmies
were employed in this task, they soon brought together several
bushels of inflammatory matter, and raised so tall a heap,
that, mounting on its summit, they were quite upon a level with
the sleeper's face. The archers, meanwhile, were stationed
within bow shot, with orders to let fly at Hercules the instant
that he stirred. Everything being in readiness, a torch was
applied to the pile, which immediately burst into flames, and
soon waxed hot enough to roast the enemy, had he but chosen to
lie still. A Pygmy, you know, though so very small, might set
the world on fire, just as easily as a Giant could; so that
this was certainly the very best way of dealing with their foe,
provided they could have kept him quiet while the conflagration
was going forward.

But no sooner did Hercules begin to be scorched, than up he
started, with his hair in a red blaze.

"What's all this?" he cried, bewildered with sleep, and staring
about him as if he expected to see another Giant.

At that moment the twenty thousand archers twanged their
bowstrings, and the arrows came whizzing, like so many winged
mosquitoes, right into the face of Hercules. But I doubt
whether more than half a dozen of them punctured the skin,
which was remarkably tough, as you know the skin of a hero has
good need to be.