Less than five minutes after that the whole of the southern, grass-roofed section of the town was going up in flames, and every living man, black, white, gray, mulatto, brown and mixed, was running full pelt to the scene of action.
We waited ten minutes longer, rather expecting the Greeks to double back and begin denouncing us at once.

In that case we intended to stretch them out with the first weapons handy.

I sat feeling the weight of an ax, and wondering just how hard I could hit a Greek's head with the back of it without killing him.

Fred had a long tent-peg.
Will chose a wooden mallet that our porters carried to help in pitching tents.
But the Greeks did not come, and there streamed such a perfect screen of crimson dust, sparkling in the reflected blaze and more beautiful than all the fireworks ever loosed off at a coronation, that it was folly to linger.

We each seized the load left for that last trip (Fred's included the hammer, pincers, and cold chisel for striking off the porters' chain) and started off quietly round the hill, not beginning to hurry until the hill lay between us and the burning town.
There was not much need for caution.