“I spy the bastards,” Frederickson said happily.

Three horsemen were spurring along the road from the town. All wore dark blue naval cloaks and had fore-and-aft cocked hats. Sharpe looked past the three Naval officers to see if any mounted provosts were riding from the town to stop the duel and arrest the participants. The duel was not exactly a secret, indeed half the depot officers in St Jean de Luz had wished Sharpe luck, so he could only assume that the provosts had chosen to be deaf and blind to the duel’s illegality.

The Naval officers walked their horses up the hill and, without an apparent glance at Sharpe, dismounted fifty yards away. One of the officers held the horses’ reins, one paced nervously, while the third walked towards the three Riflemen.

Frederickson, who was Sharpe’s second, went to meet the approaching Naval officer. “Good morning, Lieutenant!”

“Good morning, sir.” Lieutenant Ford was Bampfylde’s second. He carried a wooden case in his right hand. “I apologise that we’re late.”

“We’re just pleased that you’ve arrived.” Frederickson glanced towards Captain Bampfylde who still paced nervously behind the three horses. “Is your principal prepared to make an apology, Lieutenant?”

The question was asked dutifully, and just as dutifully answered. “Of course not, sir.”

“Which is regrettable.” Frederickson, whose company had suffered at the Teste de Buch fort because of Bampfylde’s cowardice, did not sound in the least regretful. Indeed his voice was positively gleeful in anticipation of Bampfylde’s death. “Shall we let the proceedings begin, Lieutenant?” Without waiting for an answer he beckoned to Sharpe as Ford signalled to Bampfylde.

The two principals faced each other without speaking. Bampfylde looked deathly pale to Sharpe, but quite sober. He was certainly not shaking. He looked angry, but any man who had been accused of gross cowardice should look angry.