“Praise the Lord, no!” For the first time the priest sounded shocked by something Sharpe had said. “I’m Irish, my son. My name is Father Patrick Curtis, though the Salamantines call me Don Patricio Cortes.” Curtis stopped as Harper shepherded the curious Riflemen past the two men. Harper took them on up the street. Curtis smiled again at Sharpe. “Salamanca is my city now, and these people are my people. I understand their hatred of the French, but I must protect them if the French ever rule here again. That man you were chasing. Do you know what he would do to them?”

“Delmas?What?”

Curtis frowned. He had a strong face, deeply lined, dominated by enormous, busy grey eyebrows. “Delmas? No! Leroux!”

It was Sharpe’s turn to be puzzled. “I was chasing a man in a brass helmet. A man with a limp.”

“That’s right! Leroux.” He saw Sharpe’s surprise. “He’s a full Colonel in Napoleon’s Imperial Guard. Philippe Leroux. He’s ruthless, my son, especially against civilians.”

The priest’s calm, informative voice had not mollified Sharpe, who kept his voice hostile. “You know a lot about him.”

Curtis laughed. “Of course! I’m Irish! We’re always interested in other people’s business. In my case, of course, it’s also God’s business to know about people. Even people like Colonel Leroux.”

“And it was my business to kill him.”

“As the centurion said on Golgotha.”

“What?”

“Nothing, my son. A comment in poor taste. Well, Captain?” Curtis made the rank a question, and Sharpe nodded. The priest smiled. “It’s my pleasant duty to welcome you to Salamanca, even if you are English. Consider yourself duly welcomed.

“You don’t like the English?” Sharpe was determined not to like the elderly priest.

“Why should I?” Curtis still smiled. “Does the worm like the plough?”

“I suppose you’d prefer the French?” Sharpe was still convinced that Curtis had stopped the firing to spare the man who had called himself Delmas.