It was harrowing. For what else did Sharpe have in this place but his own bloody mind? His rank meant little and -- except for last week -- is place in society even less. Of course, he realized, now Harry knew. Had even been in his bloody home to meet Harper and some of the men and see how unfair of a shake the Major routinely received from his commanding officers. And the quiet pride with which he accepted their guff. Obedient but strong.

And although the memories were fading, Sharpe himself could remember feeling proud of Blackstone. Dulled by his academic pursuits, perhaps, but a good soldier and a great Chosen Man. And for a week, he'd had a friend from home. Here.

It was hard to hold that against Dresden even if Sharpe still felt wary.

"...I think it still means a fair lot, Harry."