"Of death, I grant, but of love, never!" said Passepartout.
"The ugly old woman!"
The Parsee made him a sign to keep quiet.
Around the statue there was a group of old fakirs jumping and tossing themselves about convulsively. Smeared with bands of ochre, covered with cross-like cuts, whence their blood escaped drop by drop—stupid fanatics, who, in the great Hindoo ceremonies, precipitated themselves under the wheels of the car of Juggernaut.
Behind them, some Brahmins in all the magnificence of their Oriental costume, were dragging a woman who could hardly hold herself erect.
This woman was young, and as fair as a European. Her head, her neck, her shoulders, her ears, her arms, her hands, and her toes were loaded down with jewels, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and finger rings. A tunic, embroidered with gold, covered with a light muslin, displayed the outlines of her form.
Behind this young woman—a violent contrast for the eyes—were guards, armed with naked sabers fastened to their girdles and long damaskeened pistols, carrying a corpse upon a palanquin.
It was the body of an old man, dressed in the rich garments of a rajah, having, as in life, his turban embroidered with pearls, his robe woven of silk and gold, his sash of cashmere ornamented with diamonds, and his magnificent arms as an Indian prince.
Then, musicians and a rear guard of fanatics, whose cries sometimes drowned the deafening noise of the instruments, closed up the cortege.
Sir Francis Cromarty looked at all this pomp with a singularly sad air, and turning to the guide, he said: "A suttee?"
The Parsee made an affirmative sign and put his fingers on his lips. The long procession slowly came out from the trees, and soon the last of it disappeared in the depths of the forest.
Little by little the chanting died out. There were still the sounds of distant cries, and finally a profound silence.
Phileas Fogg had heard the word uttered by Sir Francis Cromarty, and as soon as the procession had disappeared, he asked, "What is a suttee?"
