y distinguished through the branches. First came the priests, with mitres on their heads, and clothed in long lace robes. They were surrounded by men, women, and children, who sang a kind of lugubrious psalm, interrupted at regular intervals by the tambourines and cymbals; while behind them was drawn a car with large wheels, 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, recognizing 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; te 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 tomorrow 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?'

`These sacrifices do not occur in the larger portion of India,' replied Sir Francis; `but we have

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