ern slope of the Vindhias is the scene of murders and incessant robberies.'

"The unfortunate woman!" murmured Passepartout. Burned alive!"

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Yes," replied the general, "burned; and if she was not, you would not believe to what a miserable condition she would be reduced by her near relatives. They would shave her hair; they would scarcely feed her with a few handfuls of rice; they would repulse her; she would be considered as an unclean creature, and would die in some corner like a sick dog; so that the prospect of this frightful existence frequently drives these unfortunates to the sacrifice much more than love or religious fanaticism. Sometimes, however, the sacrifice is really voluntary, and the energetic intervention of the government is necessary to prevent it. Some years ago I was living at Bombay, when a young widow came to the governor to ask his authority for her to be burned with the body of her husband. As you may think, the governor refused. Then the widow left the city, took refuge with an independent rajah, and there she accomplished the sacrifice." During the narrative of the general the guide shook his head, and when he was through said,

I can

Why, you are a man of heart," said Sir Francis Cromarty.

"Sometimes," replied Phileas Fogg, simply-" when I have time.”

The design was bold, full of difficulties, perhaps impracticable. Mr. Fogg was going to risk. his life, or at least his liberty, and consequently the success of his plans, but he did not hesitate. He found, besides, a decided ally in Sir Francis Cromarty. As for Passepartout, he was ready and could be depended upon. His master's idea excited him. He felt that there was a heart and

loved Phileas Fogg. Then there was the guide. What part would he take in the

"But this unfortunate did not seem to make any resistance," remarked Sir Francis Cromarty.

Because she was intoxicated with the

fumes of hemp and opium."

"But where are they taking her?"

ans? In default of his aid, it was at least necessary to be sure of his neutrality.

Sir Francis Cromarty put the question to him frankly.

"Officer," replied the guide, "I am a Par-. see, and that woman is a Parsee. Make use of me."

That is seen," replied Mr. Fogg. "I think that we shall have to wait for night to act."

"I think so too," replied the guide.

The brave Hindoo then gave some details as to the victim. She was an Indian of celebrated beauty, of the Parsee race, the daughter of a rich merchant of Bombay. She had received in that city an absolutely English education, and from her manners and cultivation she would have been thought a European. Her name was Aouda. An orphan, she was married against her will to this old rajah of Bundelcund. Three months after, she was a widow. Knowing the fate that awaited her, she fled, was retaken immediately, and the relatives of the rajah, who had an interest in her death, devoted her to this sacrifice, from which it seemed that she could not escape.

This narrative could only strengthen Mr. Fogg and his companions in their generous resolution. It was decided that the guide should turn the elephant toward the pagoda of Pillaji, which he should approach as near as possible.

A half hour afterward a halt was made under a thick clump of trees five hundred paces from the pagoda, which they could not see, but they heard distinctly the yellings of the fanatics. The means of reaching the victim were then discussed. The guide was acquainted with the pagoda in which he asserted that the young woman was imprisoned. Could they enter by one of the doors when

the whole band was plunged in the sleep of drunkenness, or would they have to make a hole through the wall? This could be decided only at the moment and the place. But there could be no doubt that the abduction must be accomplished this very night, and not when, daylight arrived, the victim would be led to the sacrifice. Then no human intervention could save her.

Mr. Fogg and his companions waited for night. As soon as the shadows fell, toward six o'clock in the evening, they determined to make a reconnoissance around the pagoda. The last cries of the fakirs had died out. According to their custom, these Indians were plunged in the heavy intoxication of bang-liquid opium mixed with an infusion of hemp-and it would perhaps be possible to slip in between them to the temple.

The Parsee, guiding Mr. Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty and Passepartout, advanced noiselessly through the forest. After ten minutes' creeping under the branches they arrived on the edge of a small river, and there, by the light of iron torches at the end of which was burning pitch, they saw a pile of wood. It was the funeral-pile, made of costly sandalwood, and already saturated with perfumed oil. On its upper part was resting the embalmed body of the rajah, which was to be burned at the same time as his widow. At one hundred paces from this pile rose the pagoda, whose minarets in the darkness pierced the tops of the trees.

"Come," said the guide, in a low voice; and, redoubling his precaution, followed by his companions, he slipped quietly through the tall grass. The silence was disturbed only by the murmuring of the wind in the branches.

Soon the guide stopped at the end of a clearing lit up by a few torches. The ground was covered with groups of sleepers heavy with drunkenness. It might have been thought a field of battle covered with the dead-men, women and children, all in a confused mass. Some few drunken men were tottering hither and thither. In the background, among the trees, the temple of Pillaji stood out indistinctly. But, to the great disappointment of the guide, the guards of the rajah, lighted by smoky torches, were watching at the doors and pacing up and down with drawn sabres. It was to be supposed that the priests were watching on the inside.

The Parsee did not advance any farther. He had recognized the impossibility of forcing the entrance of the temple, and he led his companions to the rear. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty understood as well as himself that they could attempt nothing on this side. They stopped and talked in a low tone.

"Let us wait," said the brigadier-general; "it is not eight o'clock yet, and it is possible that these guards may succumb to sleep." "That is possible indeed," replied the Par

see.

Phileas Fogg and his companions stretched themselves out at the foot of a tree and waited. The time appeared long to them. The guide left them sometimes and went to look at the edge of the wood. The guards of the rajah were still watching by the light of the torches, and a faint light came through the windows of the pagoda. They waited thus until midnight. The situation did not change the same watching outside. It was evident that they could not count on the

drowsiness of the guards. The intoxication of the bang had probably been kept from them. It was necessary, then, to act differently and get in by an opening made in the wall of the pagoda. There was still the question whether the priests were watching by their victim with as much care as the soldiers at the temple gate.

After a final conversation, the guide said he was ready to start. Mr. Fogg, Sir Francis and Passepartout followed him. They made a pretty long détour, so as to reach the pagoda by the rear. About a half hour past midnight they arrived at the foot of the walls without having met any one. No watch had been established on this side, but windows and doors were entirely wanting. The night was dark. The moon, then in her last quarter, was scarcely above the horizon and was covered with heavy clouds. The height of the trees further increased the darkness.

But it was not sufficient to reach the foot of the walls it was necessary to make an opening there. For this operation Phileas Fogg and his companions had nothing at all but their pocket-knives. Fortunately, the temple walls were composed of a mixture of bricks and wood which could not be difficult to make a hole through. The first brick once taken out, the others would easily follow. They went at it, making as little noise as possible. The Parsee from one side, and Passepartout from the other, worked to unfasten the bricks, so as to get an opening two feet wide.

The work was progressing, when a cry was heard from the interior of the temple, and nearly at the same time other cries answered from the outside. Passepartout and

the guide stopped their work. Had they been surprised? Had the alarm been given? The most ordinary prudence would order them to go away, which Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty did at the same time. They lay down again under cover of the wood, waiting until the alarm, if there had been one, had ceased, and ready, in this case, to resume their work. But unfortunate mischance!—some guards showed themselves at the rear of the pagoda and established themselves there, so as to hinder any approach.

It would be difficult to describe the disappointment of these four men stopped in their work. Now that they could not reach the victim, how could they save her? Sir Francis Cromarty clenched his fists, Passepartout was beside himself, and the guide had some difficulty to restrain him. The impassible Fogg waited without showing his feelings. What can we do but leave?" asked the general, in a low voice.

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We can only leave," replied the guide.

Wait," said Fogg; "it will do if I reach Allahabad to-morrow before noon."

"But what hope have you?" replied Sir Francis Cromarty. "In a few hours it will be daylight, and—”

"The chance which escapes us now may return at the last moment."

The general would have liked to read Phileas Fogg's eyes. What was this cold-blooded Englishman counting on? Would he at the moment of the sacrifice rush toward the young woman and openly tear her from her murderers? That would have been madness, and how could it be admitted that this man was mad to this degree? Nevertheless, Sir Francis Cromarty consented to wait until the dénouement of this terrible scene. How

ever, the guide did not leave his companions at the spot where they had hid, and he took them back to the foreground of the clearing. There, sheltered by a clump of trees, they could watch the sleeping groups.

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In the mean time, Passepartout, perched upon the lower branches of a tree, was meditating an idea which had first crossed his mind like a flash, and which finally embedded itself in his brain. He had commenced by saying to himself, What madness!" and now he repeated, "Why not, after all? It is a chance-perhaps the only one, and with such brutes." At all events, Passepartout did not put his thought into any other shape, but he was not slow in sliding down, with the ease of a snake, on the low branches of the tree, the end of which bent toward the ground.

The hours were passing, and soon a few less sombre shades announced the approach of day. But the darkness was still great. It was the time fixed. It was like a resurrection in this slumbering crowd. The groups wakened up. The beating of tamtams sounded; songs and cries burst out anew. The hour had come in which the unfortunate was to die.

The doors of the pagoda were now opened. A more intense light came from the interior. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis could see the victim, all lighted up, whom two priests were dragging to the outside. It seemed to them that, shaking off the drowsiness of intoxication by the highest instinct of self-preservation, the unfortunate woman was trying to escape from her executioners. Sir Francis's heart throbbed violently, and, with a convulsive movement seizing Phileas Fogg's hand, he felt that it held an open knife.