Ferreira looked alarmed, as well he might. Harper's appearance had prompted some of the other civilians to draw pistols, and the hillside was suddenly loud as flints were clicked back. Major Ferreira, fearing a bloodbath, snapped at them to lower their guns. None obeyed until the big man, the bare-fisted brute, snarled at them and then they hurriedly lowered their flints, holstered their weapons and looked scared of the big man's disapproval. All the civilians were hard-looking rogues, reminding Sharpe of the cutthroats who ruled the streets of East London where he had spent his childhood, yet their leader, the man with the brutish face and muscled body, was the oddest and most frightening of them. He was a street fighter, that much was obvious from the broken nose and the scars on his forehead and cheeks, but he was also wealthy, for his linen shirt was of fine quality, his breeches cut from the best broadcloth and his gold-tasseled boots were made from soft expensive leather. He looked to be around forty years old, in the prime of life, confident in his sheer size. The man glanced at Harper, evidently judging the Irishman as a possible opponent, then unexpectedly smiled and picked up his coat which he brushed down before putting on. "What is in the shrine," the big man stepped towards Sharpe, "is my property." His English was heavily accented and spoken in a voice like gravel.

"And who are you?" Sharpe demanded.

"Allow me to name Senhor… " Ferreira began to answer.

"My name is Ferragus," the big man interrupted.

"Ferragus," Ferreira repeated, then introduced Sharpe. "Capitao Sharpe." He offered Ferragus a shrug as if to suggest that events were beyond his control.