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datatime: 2022-11-27 10:02:33 Author:LsCOpXmV

'It'll wait.'

Sharpe felt ashamed. This was Harper's religion. 'I'm sorry.'

Sharpe felt ashamed. This was Harper's religion. 'I'm sorry.'

Cox had not been at his headquarters; he was on the ramparts, they were told. So the three had hurried there and Cox had gone. Now he was said to be visiting the magazine, so they waited, and the light shaped the dust into silver bars and the muffled responses got lost somewhere in the high stone ceiling, and still Cox had not arrived. Sharpe slammed his scabbard on the floor, hurting his shoulder, so he cursed again.

Lossow's heels clicked in the side aisle; he came from behind a pillar, blinked in the sunlight. 'Where is he?' He disappeared again.

The Sergeant pointed to the head. 'Rest of him's over the wall, sir. Poor wee thing.'

'Ja. Not easy, my friend.'

Lossow's heels clicked in the side aisle; he came from behind a pillar, blinked in the sunlight. 'Where is he?' He disappeared again.

'Ja. Not easy, my friend.'

'You want to go?'

'What day is it?'

'Sweet Jesus.' Harper stood up, 'Are you all right, sir?'

'You don't sound hopeful, my friend?'

'You don't sound hopeful, my friend?'

Light, like carved silver, slashed the cathedral's gloom, slanted across the crouching grey pillars, splintered o(T brass and paint, drowned the votive candles that burned before the statues, inched its way over the broad, worn flagstones as the sun moved higher, and Sharpe waited. A priest, lost in the depths of the choir, mumbled beyond the window light, and Sharpe saw Harper cross himself.

Sharpe felt ashamed. This was Harper's religion. 'I'm sorry.'

'Yes.' Sharpe's shoulder hurt like the devil. 'Where's the boy?'

'Sweet Jesus.' Harper stood up, 'Are you all right, sir?'

Light, like carved silver, slashed the cathedral's gloom, slanted across the crouching grey pillars, splintered o(T brass and paint, drowned the votive candles that burned before the statues, inched its way over the broad, worn flagstones as the sun moved higher, and Sharpe waited. A priest, lost in the depths of the choir, mumbled beyond the window light, and Sharpe saw Harper cross himself.

Cox had not been at his headquarters; he was on the ramparts, they were told. So the three had hurried there and Cox had gone. Now he was said to be visiting the magazine, so they waited, and the light shaped the dust into silver bars and the muffled responses got lost somewhere in the high stone ceiling, and still Cox had not arrived. Sharpe slammed his scabbard on the floor, hurting his shoulder, so he cursed again.

Sharpe turned round, blood flecking his uniform, and his face grim. 'We'll get out. With or without him, we'll get out.'

'Yes.' Sharpe's shoulder hurt like the devil. 'Where's the boy?'

Sharpe turned to him. 'We must persuade Cox to let us out.'

'What day is it?'

Sharpe turned to him. 'We must persuade Cox to let us out.'

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