The other two officers were Lieutenants. One of them frowned at Sharpe. 'Go away! Wrong place! Go!

The other Lieutenant giggled. 'About turn! Quick march! One-two, one-two! He thought he had made a fine joke and laughed again. The girl at the spinet laughed with him.

'Who are you? Well? Speak up, man! The Captain's voice snapped petulantly at Sharpe, then suddenly died away as the Rifleman stepped out of the shadows.

The realisation that they might have made a mistake came to all three young officers at the same moment. They were suddenly silent and scared as they saw a tall man, black haired, with a face darkened by a foreign sun and scarred by a foreign blade, a strong face that was given a mocking look by the scarred left cheek. That mocking expression vanished when Sharpe smiled, but he was not smiling as he stalked into the Mess. He might have worn no badges of rank, but there was something about his face, about the sword at his side and about the battered hilt of the rifle slung on his shoulder that spoke of something far beyond their understanding. The girl in the room's centre took off her blindfold and gasped at Sharpe's sudden, startling appearance.

The room was well lit by tall southern windows. The carpet was thick. Sharpe came slowly forward and the Captain put his feet together as if at attention and stared at the faded jacket and tried to convince himself that the dark stains on the green cloth were not blood.

Harry Price, seeing that one of the two girls was pretty, leaned nonchalantly against the door jamb with what he considered a suitably heroic expression. Sharpe stopped. 'Whose carriage is outside?

No one spoke, but one of the girls made a hesitant gesture towards her companion. Sharpe turned. 'Harry?

'Sir?