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with a trigger mounted on

the top. He hovered it over Sir Henry's arm and Sharpe saw he was trying to find a patch of skin

that was not already scarred with strangely regular marks.
    "Scarification!" Sir Henry barked to Hogan. "Do you bleed, Captain?"
    "No, sir."
    "You should. Keeps a man healthy. All soldiers should bleed." He turned back to the doctor who

was still hesitating over the scarred forearm. "Come on, you idiot!"
    In his nervousness the doctor pressed the trigger by mistake and there was a sharp click. From

the bottom of the box Sharpe saw a group of wicked little blades leap out like steel tongues. The

doctor flinched back. "I'm sorry, Sir Henry. A moment."
    The doctor forced the blades back into the box and Sharpe suddenly realised that it was a

bleeding machine. Instead of the old-fashioned lancet in the vein Sir Henry preferred the modern

scarifier that was supposed to be faster and more effective. The doctor placed the box on the

Colonel's arm, glanced nervously at his patient, then pressed the trigger.
    "Ah! That's better!" Sir Henry closed his eyes and smiled momentarily. A trickle of blood ran

down his arm and escaped the towel that the doctor was dabbing at the flow.
    "Again, Parton, again!"
    The doctor shook his head. "But, Sir Henry. "
    Simmerson cuffed the doctor with his free hand. "Don't argue with me! Damn it, man, bleed me!"

He looked at Hogan. "Always too much spleen after a flogging, Captain."
    "That's very understandable, sir," Hogan said in his Irish brogue, and Simmerson looked at him

suspiciously. The box clicked again, the blades gouged into the plump arm, and more blood

trickled onto the sheets. Hogan caught Sharpe's eye and there was the glimmer of a smile that

could too easily turn into laughter. Sharpe looked back to Sir Henry Simmerson, who was pulling

on his shirt.
    "You must be Captain Hogan?"
    "Yes, sir." Hogan nodded amiably.
    Simmerson turned to Sharpe. "And who the devil are you?"
    "Lieutenant Sharpe, sir. 95th Rifles."
    "No, you're not. You're a damned disgrace, that's what you are!"
    Sharpe said nothing. He stared over the Colonel's shoulder, through the window, at the far

blue hills where the French were gathering their strength.
    "Forrest!" Simmerson had stood up. "Forrest!"
    The door opened and the Major, who must have been waiting for the summons, came in. He smiled

timorously at Sharpe and Hogan and then turned to Simmerson. "Colonel?"
    "This officer will need a new uniform. Provide it, please, and arrange to have the money

deducted from his pay."
    "No." Sharpe spoke flatly. Simmerson and Forrest turned to stare at him. For a moment Sir

Henry said nothing; he was not used to being contradicted, and Sharpe kept going. "I am an

officer of the 95th Rifles and I will wear their uniform so long as I have that

honour."
    Simmerson began to go red and his fingers fluttered at his side. "Damn you, Sharpe! You're a

disgrace! You're not a soldier, you're a crossing sweeper! You're under my orders now and I'm

ordering you to be back here in fifteen minutes. "
    "No, sir." This time Hogan had spoken. His words checked Simmerson in full flow but the

Captain gave the Colonel no time to recover. He unleashed all his Irish charm, starting with a

smile of such sweet reasonableness that it would have charmed a fish out of the water. "You see,

Sir Henry, Sharpe is under my orders. The General is quite specific. As I understand it, Sir

Henry, we accompa-ny each other to Valdelacasa but Sharpe is with me."
    "But. " Hogan raised a hand to Simmerson's protest.
    "You are right, sir, so right. But of course you would understand that conditions in the field

may not be all that we would want, and it may be as well, sir, I need hardly tell you, that I

should have the dispositions of the Riflemen."
    Simmerson stared at Hogan. The Colonel had not understood a word of Hogan's nonsense but it

had all been stated in such a matter-of-fact way, and in