irt with a zone of human hands; it
stood upright upon the headless trunk of a giant figure.

Sir Francis Cromarty recognised the idol at once.

"That is the goddess Kali," he whispered; "the goddess of love and of
death."

"Of death I can understand, but not of love," muttered Passe-partout;
"what a villainous hag it is!"

The Parsee signed to him to hold his tongue.

Around the idol a number of fakirs danced and twirled about.

These wretches were daubed with ochre, and covered with wounds, from
which the blood issued drop by drop; absurd idiots, who would throw
themselves under the wheels of Juggernaut's chariot had they the
opportunity.

Behind these fanatics marched some Brahmins, clad in all their
oriental sumptuousness of garb, dragging a woman along, who faltered
at each step.

This female was young, and as white as a European. Her head, neck,
shoulders, ears, arms, hands, and ankles were covered with jewels,
bracelets, or rings. A gold-laced tunic, over which she wore a thin
muslin robe, revealed the swelling contours of her form.

Behind this young woman, and in violent contrast to her, came a guard,
armed with naked sabres and long damascened pistols, carrying a dead
body in a palanquin.

The corpse was that of an old man clothed in the rich dress of a
rajah; the turban embroidered with pearls, the robe of silk tissue and
gold, the girdle of cashmere studded with diamonds, and wearing the
beautiful weapons of an Indian prince.

The musicians brought up the rear with a guard of fanatics, whose
cries even drowned the noise of the instruments at times. These closed
the _cortege_.

Sir Francis Cromarty watched the procession pass by and his face wore
a peculiarly saddened expression. Turning to the guide, he said:

"Is it a suttee?"

The Parsee made a sign in the affirmative, and put his fingers on his
lips. The long procession wended its way slowly amongst the trees, and
before long the last of it disappeared in the depths of the forest.
The music gradually died away, occasionally a few cries could be
heard, but soon they ceased, and silence reigned around.

Phileas Fogg had heard what Sir Francis had said, and as soon as the
procession had passed out of sight, he said:

"What is a suttee?"

"A suttee," replied the general, "is a human sacrifice--but a
voluntary one. That woman you saw just now will be burned to-morrow
morning at daylight."

"The scoundrels!" exclaimed Passe-partout, who