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y　would　do　it。　He　grinned　at　his　men；　slapped　their　backs；　and　they　were　glad　that　he　was　confident。　He　was　trying　to　think　how　Sharpe　would　do　this。　The　danger　was　not　the　muskets；　the　danger　was　from　the　defenders　toppling　the　long；　rickety　ladders。　He　oordered　off　a　dozen　men；　under　the　Lieutenant；　and　told　hem　they　were　not　to　try　and　climb　the　ladder。　Instead　they　were　to　fire　at　the　ladder's　head；　scour　the　parapet　of　its　defenders；　and　only　when　the　parapet　was　clear　and　he　had　led　the　men　over　the　battlements　were　they　to　follow。　'Understand？'
　
　They　grinned　and　nodded；　and　he　grinned　back　and　drew　the　curved　sabre　from　its　scabbard。
　
　The　Sergeant　laughed。　'I　thought　you　were　going　to　forget　it　again；　sir。'　The　men　laughed　at　him　and　he　was　glad　of　the　darkness　to　cover　his　blush；　but　they　were　good　men；　his　men；　and　he　suddenly　understood；　as　never　before；　the　sense　of　loss　that　Sharpe　had　suffered。　Knowles　wondered　how　he　was　to　climb　the　ladder　and　hold　the　sword；　and　knew　he　would　。　have　to　put　the　blade　between　his　teeth。　He　would　drop　it！　He　was　nervous；　but　then；　instead　of　bugles；　there　were　shouts　and　the　trampling　of　feet　and　the　moment　had　e。
　
　The　survivors　of　the　Third　Division　erupted　from　the　darkness。　The　carcasses　flowed　down；　and　the　cannon　in　the　small　casde　bastion　shredded　the　attack；　but　they　were　screaming　defiance　and　the　ladders　swayed　in　the　ungainly　curves　until　they　slammed　against　the　castle　wall。
　
　'Up！'　He　jammed　the　blade　between　his　teeth　and　gripped　the　rungs。　Musket　balls　came　down　and　then　he　heard　his　own　guns　firing；　the　Lieutenant　calling　the　orders；　and　he　was　climbing。　The　great；　irregular　granite　blocks　were　going　past　his　face；　and　he　scrambled　up；　the　fear　a　living　thing　beside　him；　and　he　concentrated　on　keeping　the　sabre　between　his　teeth。　His　jaw　ached。　It　was　such　a　stupid　tiling　to　worry　about　because　he　was　nearing　the　top　and　he　wanted　to　laugh　and　he　was　afraid；　so　afraid；　because　the　enemy　would　be　waiting；　and　he　felt　his　knuckles　graze　against　the　granite　as　the　slope　of　the　ladder　took　him　close　to　the　wall。　He　took　the　sabre　from　his　mouth。
　
　'Stop　firing！'　The　Lieutenant　stared　up　and　held　his　breath。
　
　Knowles　had　to　use　his　fist；　wrapped　round　the　sabre　handle；　as　a　prop　to　help　him　up　the　last　rungs。　It　was　easier　than　climbing　with　the　blade　in　his　teeth。　He　suddenly　felt　foolish；　as　if　someone　might　have　laughed　at　him　for　climbingg　a　ladder　with　a　sabre　in　his　mouth；　and　he　wondered　why　the　mind　chose　such　irrelevant　and　stupid　thoughts　at　such：　moment。　He　could　hear　the　guns；　the　screams；　the　crash　of　another　ladder；　and　the　man　behind　pushed　at　him；　and　the　top　was　there！　This　was　the　moment　of　death　and　his　fear　harrowed　him；　but　he　pushed　over　the　top　and　saw　the　bayonet　e　sawing　towards　him。　He　leaned　to　one　side；　tottering　on　the　ladder；　and　swung　his　right　arm　for　balance　and；　to　his　surprise；　saw　the　sabre　at　the　end　of　the　arm　cleave　down　into　the　enemy's　head。　A　hand　pushed　him　from　behind；　his　feet　were　still　pedaling　at　the　rungs；　but　he　had　run　out　of　ladder！　He　was　falling　forward　on　to　the　body　of　the　dead　man；　and　another　enemy　was　ing；　so　he　rolled　and　twisted　and　knew　he　was　there。　He　was　on　the　ramparts！　There　was　a　keening　in　his　throat；　that　he　did　not　hear；　a　sound　of　insensate　fear；　and　he　thrust　up　with　the　sabre；　into　the　man's　groin；　and　the　scream　winged　into　the　night　and　the　blood　pulsed　on　to　Knowles's　wrist；　and　the　second　man　was　with　him。
　
　They　had　done　it！　They　had　done　it！　The　men　were　ing　up　the　ladder；　and　he　was　filled　with　a　joy　that　he　did　not　know　existed。　He　was　on　his　feet；　his　blade　bloodied　to　the　hilt；　and　the　enemy　were　running　towards　them；　muskets　outstretched；　but　the　fear　was　conquered。　There　was　something　odd　about　the　Frenchmen's　uniforms。　They　were　not　blue　and　white。　Knowles　had　a　glimpse　of　red　turnbacks　and　yellow　facings；　but　then　he　was　jumping　forward；　remembering　that　Sharpe　always　attacked；　and　the　sabre　twisted　a　bayonet　aside；　flicked　up；　and　he　had　the　man　in　the　throat。　'Light　pany！　To　me！　Light　pany！'
　
　A　musket　volley　shattered　along　the　parapet；　but　he　was　still　alive　and　more　of　his　men　were　joining　him。　He　heard　the　enemy　shouting　orders。　German！　These　were　Germans！　If　they　were　half　as　good　as　the　more　numerous　Germans　who　fought　for　Wellington；　but　he　would　not　feel　fear；　only　victory。　He　led　his　men　down　the　wall；　bayonets　out。　The　enemy　were　few　and　outnumbered；　and　every　yard　of　wall　that　Knowles's　men　cleared　was　another　yard　where　ladders　could　safely　be　climbed　and　the　casde　parapet　filled　with　the　red　uniforms。
　
　The　Germans　died　hard。　They　defended　each　casement；　each　stairway；　but　they　stood　no　chance。　The　castle　had　been　denuded　of　troops；　only　a　thin　battalion　left；　but　that　battalion　fought　grimly。　Each　minute　that　they　saved　on　the　battlements　was　another　minute　for　the　central　reserves　to　reach　the　casde；　so　they　fought　on；　despising　the　odds；　and　screamed　as　they　fell　from　the　parapets；　chopped　down　by　the　redcoats；　and　fought　till　the　wall　was　lost。
　
　Knowles　felt　the　joy　of　it。　They　had　won　the　unbelievable　victory。　They　had　climbed　a　rock　hill　and　a　casde　and　they　had　won！　He　pounded　his　men　on　their　backs；　hugged　them；　laughed　with　them；　forgave　them　all　their　crimes；　because　they　had　done　it。　It　did　not　matter　that　the　vast　casde　buildings　would　still　have　to　be　cleared；　the　dark；　treacherous　courtyards；　because　no　one　now　could　take　this　battlement　from　them。　The　British　had　won　the　city's　highest　point　and　from　here　they　could　fight　downhill；　into　the　streets；　down　to　the　main　breach；　and　Knowles　knew　he　would　reach　Teresa　first　and　he　would　see；　some　time　in　the　night；　the　gratitude　on　Sharpe's　face。　He　had　done　it。　They　had　done　it。　And　for　the　first　time　that　night；　it　was　British　cheers　dial　startled　the　air　in　Badajoz。
　
　The　cheers　could　not　be　heard　at　the　breaches。　The　casde　was　a　long　journey　away；　at　least　a　mile's　ride　by　the　time　a　horseman　had　circled　the　floodwaters；　and　it　would　be　minutes　yet　before　the　messenger　would　be　dispatched。　Picton　waited。　He　had　heard　the　bell　strike　eleven　as　he　saw　his　first；　magnificent　men　cross　the　parapet；　and　he　waited；　listening　to　the　sounds　of　battle；　to　know　if　they　had　won　or　were　being　chopped　to　pieces　in　the　castle　yards。　He　heard　the　cheers；　stood　up　in　his　stirrups　and　roared　his　own；　then　turned　to　an　aide…de…camp。　'Ride；　man；　ride！'　He　turned　to　another　staff　officer　and　clapped　the　man　mightily　on　the　back。　'We've　proved　him　wrong！　Damn　his　eyes！　We　did　it！'
　
　He　chuckled；　anticipating　Wellington's　reaction　when　the　news　arrived　at　midnight。
　
　Anger　would　take　a　man　through　a　breach；　sheer　passion；　but　a　small　idea　helped。　It　was　not　much　of　an　idea；　hopeless　even；　deserving　the　name　Forlorn；　but　it　was　all　Sharpe　had；　and　so　he　stared　at　the　ravelin　that　stretched　so　invitingly　towards　the　third；　unsullied　breach。　There　was　no　point　in　trying　to　outrace　the　grapeshot　across　its　flat；　diamond　surface。　Any　man　who　tried　was　flicked　hopelessly　away；　contemptuous　meat　to　the　gunners'　fire。　Yet　the　third　breach　was　the　newest；　and　the　French　had　been　given　small　time　to　entrap　it；　and　Sharpe　could　see；　through　the　sifting　smoke；　that　the　Chevaux　de　Prise　on　the　new　breach's　summit　was　too　short。　There　was　a　gap　at　the　right　hand　side；　a　gap　three　men　could　pass　abreast；　and　the　only　problem　was　reaching　the　gap。　There　was　no　approach　in　the　ditch。　The　fires　still　seethed；　white　hot　and　violent；　and　the　only　path　was　across　the　ravelin。　They　must　climb　the　ravelin；　brave　the　top；　and　jump　into　the　ditch；　and　it　must　be　done　at　the　ravelin's　edge；　close　to　the　flames；　where　the　diamond　shape　narrowed　and　the　fatal　journey　was　short。
　
　He　had　no　right　to　take　the　pany　on　the　journey。　This　was　a　Forlorn　Hope；　born　of　despair　and　nurtured　by　pride；　and　it　belonged　to　the　volunteer；　to　the　foolish。　He　knew　he　did　not　have　to　go　himself；　but　he　wanted　no　dead　man's　shoes。　He　had　waited；　letting　the　violence　of　the　last　attack　spend　itself　in　the　ditch；　and　there　was　now　a　kind　of　truce　before　the　breaches。　As　long　as　the　British　stayed　quiet；　harmless　behind　the　ravelin；　the　gunners　let　them　be。　Only　when　men　came　into　the　firelight；　towards　the　breaches；　did　the　muzzles　spout　flame　and　the　grapeshot　crease　the　ditch　floor。　Back　in　the　darkness；　down　the　glacis；　Sharpe　could　hear　orders　being　called。　Another　attack　was　ing；　the　last　reserves　of　the　Division　being　fed　into　the　ditch；　and　that　was　the　moment；　the　hopeless　moment；　when　the　feeble　idea；　based　only　on　the　narrowing　width　of　the　ravelin；　must　be　tried。　He　turned　to　his　men　and　drew　the　sword；　the　blade　a　great　streak　in　the　night；　and　the　steel　hissed　as　he　swung　it　to　the　point　at　the　firelight。
　
　'I'm　going　there。　There　is　one　more　attack；　just　one；　and　then　it's　all　over。　No　one's　touched　that　central　breach；　and　that's　where　I'm　going。　Over　the　ravelin；　down　into　the　ditch；　and　I'll　probably　break　my　bloody　legs　because　there　are　no　ladders　or　hay…bags；　but　that's　where　I'm　going。'　The　faces　were　pale；　staring　at　him　as　they　squatted　on　the　slope。　'I'm　going　because　the　French　are　lau