Out of that funeral pyre her feverish thoughts builded a frightful dream.
* * * * * * The drunken mahout slid off Rajah; the soldiers turned aside.

Hired female mourners were kneeling about, wailing and beating their breasts, while behind them stood the high caste widow, her face as tragic as Dido's at the pyre of Aeneas.

Suddenly she threw her arms high over her head.
"I am suttee!" Suttee! It was against the law of the British Raj.

The soldiers began arguing with the widow, but only half heartedly.

It was a pious rite, worthy of the high caste Hindu's wife.