"Quite right," Sarah chimed in. She had been silent ever since they had left Ferreira's house, but the university reassured her that there was a world of civilized restraint, far from threats of slavery in Africa. "A university," she said, "is a sanctuary."

"Sanctuary!" Sharpe was amused. "You think the Crapauds will get in here, take one look and say it's sacred?"

"Mister Sharpe!" Sarah said. "I cannot abide bad language."

"What's wrong with 'Crapaud'? It means toad."

"I know what it means," Sarah said, but blushed, for she had momentarily thought Sharpe had said something else.

"I think the French are only interested in food and wine," Vicente said.

"I can think of something else," Sharpe said, and received a stern look from Sarah.

"There is no food here," Vicente insisted, "just higher things."

"And the Crapauds will get in here," Sharpe said, "and they'll see beauty. They'll see value. They'll see something they can't have. So what will they do, Pat?"

"Mangle the bloody lot, sir," Harper said promptly. "Sorry, miss."

"The French will guard it," Vicente insisted. "They have men of honor, men who respect learning."

"Men of honor!" Sharpe said scornfully. "I was in a place called Seringapatam once, Jorge. In India. There was a palace there, stuffed with gold! You should have seen it! Rubies and emeralds, golden tigers, diamonds, pearls, more riches than you can dream of! So the men of honor guarded it. The officers, Jorge. They put a reliable guard on it to stop us heathens getting in and stripping it bare. And you know what happened?"

"It was saved, I hope," Vicente said.

"The officers stripped it bare," Sharpe said. "Cleaned it up properly. Lord Wellington was one of them and he must have made a penny or two out of that lot. There wasn't a tiger's golden whisker left by the time they'd all done."

"This will be safe," Vicente insisted, but unhappily.

They left the university, going back downhill into the smaller streets of the lower town. Sharpe had the impression that the folk of quality, the university people and most of the richer inhabitants, had left the city, but there were thousands of ordinary men and women left. Some were packing and leaving, but most had fatalistically accepted that the French would come and they just hoped to survive the occupation. A clock struck eleven somewhere and Vicente looked worried. "I must get back."

"Something to eat first," Sharpe said, and pushed into a tavern. It was crowded, and the people inside were not happy to see soldiers, for they did not understand why their city was being abandoned to the French, but they reluctantly made space at a table. Vicente ordered wine, bread, cheese and olives, then again made an attempt to leave. "Don't worry," Sharpe said, stopping him, "I'll get Colonel Lawford to explain to your Colonel. Tell him you were on an important mission. You know how to deal with senior officers?"

"Respectfully," Vicente said.

"Confuse them," Sharpe said. "Except for the ones who can't be confused like Wellington."

"But isn't he leaving?" Sarah asked. "Going back to England?"

"Lord love you, no, miss," Sharpe said. "He's got a surprise ready for the Frogs. A chain of forts, miss, clear across the land north of Lisbon. They'll break their heads there and we'll sit back and watch them. We're not leaving."

"I thought you were going back to England," Sarah said. She had conceived an idea of traveling with the army, preferably with a family of quality, and making a new start. Quite how she would do that without money, clothes or a written character, she did not know, but nor was she willing to give in to the despair she had felt earlier in the morning.

"We're not going home till the war's won," Sharpe said, "but what are we going to do with you? Send you home?"

Sarah shrugged. "I have no money, Mister Sharpe. No money, no clothes."

"You've got family?"

"My parents are dead. I have an uncle, but I doubt he'll be willing to help me."

"The more I see of families," Sharpe said, "the happier I am to be an orphan."

"Sharpe!" Vicente said reprovingly.

"You'll be all right, miss," Harper intervened.

"How?" Sarah demanded.

"Because you're with Mister Sharpe now, miss. He'll see you're all right."

"So why did Ferragus lock you in?" Sharpe asked.

Sarah blushed and looked down at the table. «He…» she began, but did not know how to finish.

"Was going to?" Sharpe asked, knowing exactly what she was reluctant to say. "Or did?"

"Was going to," she said in a low voice, then she recovered her poise and looked up at him. "He said he would sell me in Morocco. He said they give a lot of money for… " Her voice trailed away.

"That bastard has got a right bloody treat coming," Sharpe said. "Sorry, miss. Bad language. What we'll do is find him, take his money I and give it to you. Simple, eh!" He grinned at her.

"I said you'd be all right," Harper said, as though the deed were already done.

Vicente had taken no part in this conversation, for a big man had come into the tavern and sat next to the Portuguese officer. The two had been talking and Vicente, his face worried, now turned to Sharpe. "This man is called Francisco," he said, "and he tells me there is a warehouse full of food. It is locked away, hidden. The man who owns it is planning to sell it all to the French."

Sharpe looked at Francisco. A rat, he thought, a street rat. "What does Francisco want?" he asked.

"Want?" Vicente did not understand the question.

"What does he want, Jorge? Why is he telling us?"

There was a brief conversation in Portuguese. "He says," Vicente translated, "that he does not want the French to get any food."

"He's a patriot, is he?" Sharpe asked skeptically. "So how does he know about this food?"

"He helped deliver it. He is, what do you say? A man with a cart?"

"A carter," Sharpe said. "So he's a patriotic carter?" There was another brief conversation before Vicente interpreted. "He says the man did not pay him."

That made a lot more sense to Sharpe. Maybe Francisco was a patriot, but revenge was a much more believable motive. "But why us?" he asked.

"Why us?" Vicente was again puzzled.

"There's at least a thousand soldiers down at the quay," Sharpe explained, "and more marching through the city. Why does he come to us?"

"He recognized me," Vicente said. "He grew up here, like me." Sharpe sipped his wine, staring hard at Francisco who looked, he thought, shifty as hell, but everything made sense if he really had been rooked out of his money. "Who's the man storing the food?"

Another conversation. "He says the man's name is Manuel Lopez," Vicente said. "I've not heard of him."

"Pity it's not bloody Ferragus," Sharpe said. "Sorry, miss. So how far is this warehouse?"

"Two minutes away," Vicente said.

"If there's as much as he says," Sharpe said, "then we'll have to get a battalion up there, but we'd best have a look at the stuff first." He nodded at Harper's volley gun. "Is that toy loaded?"

"It is, sir. Not primed, though."

"Prime her, Pat. If Mister Lopez don't like us then that should calm him down." He gave Vicente some coins for the wine and food, and the Portuguese officer paid while Francisco watched Harper prime the volley gun. Francisco seemed nervous of the weapon, which was hardly surprising for it was fearsome-looking.

"I need more bullets for this," Harper said.

"How many have you got?"

"After this load?" Harper patted the breech, then carefully lowered the flint to make the gun safe. "Twenty-three."

"I'll filch some from Lawford," Sharpe said. "His bloody great horse pistol takes half-inch balls and he never fires the bloody thing. Sorry, miss. He doesn't like firing it, it's too powerful. God knows why he keeps it. Perhaps to frighten his wife." He looked for Vicente. "You're ready? Let's find this damn food, then you can report it to your Colonel. That should put you in his good books."