JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 202 из 213Cavalrymen stood still, disbelieving what they had done, and their swords were held low and blood dripped from the tips. They had done the impossible. Some men laughed in relief, an almost wild laughter, and the French prisoners, now passion was spent, offered the victors wine from their canteens.
Patrick Harper threaded his way into the third square and looked down on Sharpe and Leroux. The Frenchman still knelt, the Kligenthal was still on the ground. Harper looked at Sharpe. “What’s his trouble?”
“Won’t fight.” Sharpe’s sword was still clean.
Leroux stood up, wincing as the wound in his left leg hurt. “I surrender.”
Sharpe swore at him, then gestured at the sword. “Pick it up.”
“I surrender.” Leroux’s pale eyes looked right for help, but Harper blocked the view.
Sharpe tried to see a likeness between this man and La Marquesa, but he could not. What in her was beauty had become hard in her brother. “Pick up the sword.”
Leroux brushed grass from the fur trim of his red jacket. “I have surrendered.”
Sharpe swung the flat of his sword so it hit the fur hat, knocking it off. “Fight, you bastard.” Leroux shook his head. Sharpe would not take the surrender. “You surrendered before, remember? Not this time, Captain Delmas.”
Leroux smiled, gestured at the Kligenthal. “You have my sword.”
Sharpe crouched, his eyes still on Leroux, and picked up the Kligenthal in his left hand. It was beautiful, balanced to perfection, a weapon made by a master. He tossed it towards Leroux. “Fight.”
Leroux let the blade fall. “I am your prisoner.”
“Kill the bastard, sir.” Harper growled.
“I’m going to.” Sharpe levelled his sword, put it to Leroux’s breast, and pushed. The Frenchman went backwards. Sharpe stooped and picked the Kligenthal up once more. He held it out, handle towards the Frenchman, and went forward again and again. Leroux went backwards. The French soldiers watched.
Then Leroux could go no further. He was backed into a corner of the square and Sharpe brought his sword up so that the tip was at Leroux’s throat. The Rifleman smiled. “I’m going to kill you. I don’t give a damn whether you fight or not.” He pressed with the sword, Leroux’s head went back, and suddenly the pale eyes showed alarm. He really was to die and his arm came up, snatched at the Kligenthal, and Sharpe stepped backwards. “Now fight, you bastard.”
Leroux fought. He fought because he thought that if he won this fight, then he could surrender.
Patrick Harper threaded his way into the third square and looked down on Sharpe and Leroux. The Frenchman still knelt, the Kligenthal was still on the ground. Harper looked at Sharpe. “What’s his trouble?”
“Won’t fight.” Sharpe’s sword was still clean.
Leroux stood up, wincing as the wound in his left leg hurt. “I surrender.”
Sharpe swore at him, then gestured at the sword. “Pick it up.”
“I surrender.” Leroux’s pale eyes looked right for help, but Harper blocked the view.
Sharpe tried to see a likeness between this man and La Marquesa, but he could not. What in her was beauty had become hard in her brother. “Pick up the sword.”
Leroux brushed grass from the fur trim of his red jacket. “I have surrendered.”
Sharpe swung the flat of his sword so it hit the fur hat, knocking it off. “Fight, you bastard.” Leroux shook his head. Sharpe would not take the surrender. “You surrendered before, remember? Not this time, Captain Delmas.”
Leroux smiled, gestured at the Kligenthal. “You have my sword.”
Sharpe crouched, his eyes still on Leroux, and picked up the Kligenthal in his left hand. It was beautiful, balanced to perfection, a weapon made by a master. He tossed it towards Leroux. “Fight.”
Leroux let the blade fall. “I am your prisoner.”
“Kill the bastard, sir.” Harper growled.
“I’m going to.” Sharpe levelled his sword, put it to Leroux’s breast, and pushed. The Frenchman went backwards. Sharpe stooped and picked the Kligenthal up once more. He held it out, handle towards the Frenchman, and went forward again and again. Leroux went backwards. The French soldiers watched.
Then Leroux could go no further. He was backed into a corner of the square and Sharpe brought his sword up so that the tip was at Leroux’s throat. The Rifleman smiled. “I’m going to kill you. I don’t give a damn whether you fight or not.” He pressed with the sword, Leroux’s head went back, and suddenly the pale eyes showed alarm. He really was to die and his arm came up, snatched at the Kligenthal, and Sharpe stepped backwards. “Now fight, you bastard.”
Leroux fought. He fought because he thought that if he won this fight, then he could surrender.