The bugler took a deep breath, then blew hard. The call was a triple call of nine notes, the first eight stuttering on one note, the last flying high up the scale. The sound of the bugle echoed from the distant hills and Sharpe, gazing through his telescope, saw the cloaked French general turn back.

"Again, lad, " Sharpe told the bugler.

The bugle call was sending two messages. First, it was telling the riflemen to abandon their positions and climb back to the ridge, but it was also telling the French that they faced an enemy more formidable than partisans. They were facing trained infantry, veteran troops, and when Sharpe was certain that the Frenchman was staring up at the ridge in an effort to catch sight of the bugler, he turned and shouted at the Prince of Wales's Own Volunteers.

"'Talion! By the right! Forward, " a pause, "march!»

They stamped forward in perfect order, a line of men two ranks deep beneath their bright colours.

"'Talion! " Sharpe shouted as they reached the ridge's crest. "Halt! Fix bayonets!»

Sharpe was putting on a display for the French. The enemy had been bloodied, they had been panicked, and now they faced a long, steep climb up a bare, cold hill to where they could see the redcoats of Britain and the long glitter of seventeen-inch bayonets.

Ensign Nicholls came to stand by Sharpe. "What are we doing, sir?"

"We're giving the Frogs an invitation, Mr. Nicholls. Seeing if they're brave enough to come up and play."

"Will they?"

"I doubt it, lad, " Sharpe said. "I doubt it."

"Why not, sir?" "Because they're about to be given a demonstration, lad, that's why. Sergeant Major?"