Sharpe

Sharpe:
Tell General Chaumier we will fight him to the death.

Ducos:
[scoffs] Major Sharpe is not well. We outnumber you ten to one. There will be no terms if you do not surrender within the hour, Monsieur.

[Sharpe plucks off Ducos's glasses, drops them on the ground and crushes them with his boot.]

Sharpe:
To the death.

Farthingdale:
I'm in charge here, Major Sharpe! We will discuss terms immediately.

[Sharpe pulls Farthingdale aside.]

Sharpe:
Your wife was a whore, sir. I know, for I was once her lover. [Farthingdale blanches.] Let that get out, and you'll be the laughingstock of Lisbon, and then of London. Leave now, and on my honor, no word of it will pass my lips.

Farthingdale:
[stammering] But... but I do love her, you know.

Sharpe:
You're a damned liar.