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the spokes of which represented serpents entwined with each other.
Upon the car, which was drawn by four richly caparisoned zebus,
stood a hideous statue with four arms, the body coloured a dull red,
with haggard eyes, dishevelled hair, protruding tongue, and lips tinted
with betel. It stood upright upon the figure of a prostrate
and headless giant.

Sir Francis, recognising the statue, whispered, "The goddess Kali;
the goddess of love and death."

"Of death, perhaps," muttered back Passepartout, "but of love--
that ugly old hag? Never!"

The Parsee made a motion to keep silence.

A group of old fakirs were capering and making a wild ado round the statue;
these were striped with ochre, and covered with cuts whence their blood
issued drop by drop--stupid fanatics, who, in the great Indian ceremonies,
still throw themselves under the wheels of Juggernaut. Some Brahmins,
clad in all the sumptuousness of Oriental apparel, and leading a woman
who faltered at every step, followed. This woman was young, and as
fair as a European. Her head and neck, shoulders, ears, arms,
hands, and toes were loaded down with jewels and gems with bracelets,
earrings, and rings; while a tunic bordered with gold, and covered
with a light muslin robe, betrayed the outline of her form.

The guards who followed the young woman presented a violent contrast
to her, armed as they were with naked sabres hung at their waists,
and long damascened pistols, and bearing a corpse on a palanquin.
It was the body of an old man, gorgeously arrayed in the habiliments
of a rajah, wearing, as in life, a turban embroidered with pearls,
a robe of tissue of silk and gold, a scarf of cashmere sewed with diamonds,
and the magnificent weapons of a Hindoo prince. Next came the musicians
and a rearguard of capering fakirs, whose cries sometimes drowned the noise
of the instruments; these closed the procession.

Sir Francis watched the procession with a sad countenance, and,
turning to the guide, said, "A suttee."

The Parsee nodded, and put his finger to his lips. The procession slowly
wound under the trees, and soon its last ranks disappeared in the depths
of the wood. The songs gradually died away; occasionally cries were heard
in the distance, until at last all was silence again.

Phileas Fogg had heard what Sir Francis said, and, as soon as
the procession had disappeared, asked: "What is a suttee?"

"A suttee," returned the general, "is a human sacrifice, but a voluntary one.
The woman you have just seen will be burned to-morrow at the dawn of day."

"Oh, the scoundrels!" cried Passepartout, who could not repress
his indignation.

"And the corpse?" asked Mr. Fogg.

"Is that of the prince, her husband," said the guide; "an independent
rajah of Bundelcund."

"Is it possible," resumed Phileas Fogg, his voice betraying not
the least emotion, "that these barbarous customs still exist in India,
and that the English have been unable to put a stop to them?"

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