Lucille asked, clutching Patrick. "That depends on your Englishman, " the corporal said, "and on my sergeant's mercy." "Your sergeant?" Luciile asked, guessing he meant the big man who had first confronted her. "And my sergeant, the corporal continued, "does not have mercy. It was bled out of him in the war. It was bled out of us all. You have coffee?" A shot sounded far away, and Lucille thought of the terrible things that war had left in its wake. She remembered the stories of pillage and murder that racked poor France and which now, at Christmas, had arrived at her own front door. She held her child, closed her eyes and prayed.

THE fox had twisted in the air when it was hit, a last reflex making the beast leap to escape the shot, and then it fell to leave a smear of blood on the frosted grass. "One less, " Sharpe told Nosey. "Leave it alone, boy, " he said, nudging the dog away from the corpse and he wondered if he should skin it for the fur and brush, then thought the hell with it. He kicked the dead animal into the underbrush, then turned and looked down the valley. Odd, he thought, that the group of pedestrians had not appeared on the bridge. The familiar smell of powder smoke lingered as he stared down the valley. Maybe the travellers had been in a hurry and were already hidden by the beech trees on the far slope? But those trees were bare and he could see no flicker of movement where the road climbed beneath their branches.

DAMN IT, he thought, but they should be in sight, and suddenly the old instinct of danger prickled at him and so he called Nosey to heel, slung the gun on his shoulder and began walking down the valley. He told himself he was being ridiculous. The world was at peace. Christmas was a day away and folk had the right to walk rural roads without sparking the suspicions of a retired Rifleman, but Sharpe, like Lucille, read the newspapers. In Montmorillon, just a month before, a group of ex-soldiers had invaded a lawyer's house, had killed the parents, stolen their goods and dragged the daughters away. All across France similar things happened. There was no work, the harvest had been scanty and men back from the wars had no homes, no money and no hope, but they all possessed the skills of foraging and plundering that Napoleon had encouraged in his soldiers. Sharpe was certain now that the travellers had not passed him, which meant they had either turned back to the village or else gone to the farm. And maybe they had business there? Maybe they were just beggars? Not all the soldiers back from the wars were violent criminals, most just roamed the countryside asking for food. Sharpe had fed enough of them and he usually enjoyed those encounters with his old enemies. One man had been on the walls of Badajoz, a Spanish citadel attacked by the British, and had boasted how many Englishmen he had killed in the ditch at the foot of the fortifcation, and Sharpe had never told him he had been in that same ditch, nor that he had climbed the breach in a storm of blood and fire to send the Frenchmen running. It was over, he told himself it was over and gone and good riddance to it. So maybe they were just beggars, he thought, but even so Sharpe did not like leaving Lucille, Marie and Patrick alone with a group of hungry men who might just be tempted to take more than they were offered.

AND so he hurried, taking the short route across the shoulder of the hill and then down the steep slope to where the choked mill-leat was skimmed with ice.

He crossed the leat bridge, something else that needed rebuilding, and stopped to gaze into the farm" s courtyard beyond the moat. Nothing moved there. Smoke drifted from the kitchen chimney. The windows were misted.

Everything looked as it should, and yet the danger still nagged him. It was a feeling he had come to trust, a feeling that had saved his life on countless Spanish fields. He thought about loading the rifle, then decided it was too late. If there were men in the farm then there would be too many for one rifle bullet. Besides, they would already be watching him and it was best not to make a show of hostility. What would be best, he thought, was to get the hell away from here and watch the farmhouse until he understood if there was danger there or not, but he had no choice in the matter. Lucille and his son were inside the farm, so he had to go there even though his every instinct shrieked at him to stay away. "Come on, Nosey, " he said, and he walked on, crossing the bridge over the moat and anticipating what a fool he would feel as he pushed the kitchen door open to discover Lucille feeding Patrick, Marie chopping turnips and the stove blazing cheerfully. The war had left him nervous, he told himself, nervous, jumpy, skittish and prone to fears, and it was all nonsense. Nothing was wrong. Tomorrow was Christmas and all was well with the world, except that all the world needed rebuilding.

He pushed open the kitchen door. "Got one of the sods, " he announced happily, then went very still. A small bespectacled man was sitting opposite Lucille.

Another man was behind her with a pistol pointing at her black hair. Marie was huddled in the corner chair, while in front of Sharpe, and carrying Sharpe's old sword that he had taken down from the wall above the spice cupboard, was a tall man with dragoon pigtails framing a face that was as hard as horn.

"Remember me?" The tall man said "Because I remember you." He pushed the sword forward until its point touched Sharpe's neck. "I remember you very well, Major Sharpe, " he said, "very well indeed. Welcome home."

SHARPE sat beside Luciile at his kitchen table. One man stood behind him with a pistol while Sergeant Guy Challon chopped Sharpe's sword into the table's edge. "A clumsy weapon, " he said derisively. "It works better on Frenchmen than on tables, " Sharpe said. "Put the sword down, Sergeant! " the small bespectacled man complained. "Put it on the pile. Someone will pay a few francs for it." He watched as the sergeant added the sword to the pile of silver and other small valuables that was growing beside the kitchen door. The collected loot included Lucille's small stock of jewelry, among which had been a large ruby that had come from Napoleon's own treasure chests and the small man had seized on the stone as evidence of Sharpe's wealth. He had introduced himself as Maitre Henri Lorcet and explained that he was a lawyer. "And I had the honour, " he went on, of drawing up the last will and testament of Major Pierre Ducos. This is it, " he had said, producing a long document that he smoothed on the kitchen table. Now, with the sword safely put away, he tapped the paper as though it somehow gave legitimacy to his presence. "The will mentions the existence of a hoard of gold, once the property of Napoleon Bonaparte. Lorcet looked up at Sharpe, and the wan light flashed off his round spectacle lenses. "Major Ducos was kind enough to bequeath the treasure to me and to Sergeant Challon, and he indicated that you would know where it was to be found." He paused, "You do know about this gold, Major Sharpe?" "I know about it, " Sharpe admitted. Two-years before, when Napoleon had been banished to Elba, Sharpe had helped rescue the Emperor's treasure that had been lost on its journey to the island. Pierre Ducos had stolen the gold, and Sergeant Challon had been Ducos's helper, and though Ducos was long dead, he had somehow reached from his grave to wish this trouble on his old enemy.

"WE HAVE nothing! " Lucille insisted, "other than what you see." Maitre Lorcet took no notice of her protest. "The value of the gold amounted to 200, 000 francs, I believe?" Sharpe laughed. "Your friend Ducos spent half of that!»

"So? 100, 000 francs, " Lorcet said equably, as well he might, for the halved sum was still close to 50, 000 pounds, and a man could live in luxury on 200 pounds a year. "I wasn't alone when I took that gold, " Sharpe told the lawyer.