He reckoned he had stood no chance in a fair fight, but Sharpe, like Ferragus, reckoned fair fights were for fools. He knew he had to put Ferragus down fast and hurt him so bad that the huge man could not fight back, and he had done it in a heartbeat, for the big man was bent over, filled with pain and fighting for breath, and Sharpe cleared him from the passage by dragging him into the space in front of the altar and then walked past a horrified Ferreira. "You got anything to say to me, Major?" Sharpe asked, and when Ferreira dumbly shook his head Sharpe made his way back into the sunlight. "Lieutenant Slingsby!" he called. "What are those damned dragoons doing?"

"Keeping their distance, Sharpe," Slingsby said. "What was that shot?"

"I was showing a Portuguese fellow how a rifle works," Sharpe said. "How much distance?"

"At least half a mile. Bottom of the hill."

"Watch them," Sharpe said, "and I want thirty men in here now. Mister Iliffe! Sergeant McGovern!"

He left Ensign Iliffe in nominal charge of the thirty men who were to haul the sacks out of the shrine. Once outside, the sacks were slit open and their contents scattered across the hilltop. Ferragus came limping from the shrine and his men looked confused and angry, but they were hugely outnumbered and there was nothing they could do. Ferragus had regained his breath, though he was having trouble standing upright. He spoke bitterly to Ferreira, but the Major managed to talk some sense into the big man and, at last, they all mounted their horses and, with a last resentful look at Sharpe, rode down the westwards track.

Sharpe watched them retreat then went to join Slingsby. Behind him the telegraph tower burned fiercely, suddenly keeling over with a great splintering noise and an explosion of sparks. "Where are the Crapauds?"