image of the goddess Kali, who's supposed to manifest the principles of love and death. If you've ever seen those idols you know what this one looked like—black as sin and smeared with goat's blood, four arms branchin' from its shoulders, tongue hangin' out and all a-wash with betel-juice and henna. There's a collar o' skulls strung round its neck and a belt of human hands tied round its waist. Not an appetizin' sight at any time, when it's plastered thick with half-dried blood and rancid butter it's enough to make a feller gag.
"Followin' the Kali-cart was another crowd o' Brahmins, all dressed up for a party, and in their midst they dragged—for she could scarcely walk—a girl as white as you or I."
"A white woman, you say?" I interrupted.
"You ought to know, you've just looked at her picture," answered Pemberton, raising the locket from his knee and holding out the sweet, pale face for my inspection. "That was my Aunt Maria—or Sarastai, as she was then.
"I suppose she must have looked a little different in her native dress, but I'll wager she was no less beautiful. My uncle's diary records that she was fairly loaded down with jewels. Everywhere a gem could find a resting-place had been devoted to her decoration. There was a diadem of pearls and rubies on her head; a 'golden flower,' or fan-like ornament of filigree in which small emeralds and seed-pearls were set, had been hung in her nose, and dropped so low across her lips that he could hardly see her mouth. Her cars and neck and shoulders and arms and wrists and ankles and every toe and finger bore some sort of jewel, and her gold-embroidered sari was sewn about the border with more gems, and even her white-muslin veil was edged with seed-pearls.
"Two Brahmins held her elbows, half leading and half dragging her along, and her head swayed drunkenly, now forward on her breast, now falling to one shoulder or the other as she lurched and staggered on the road.
"Last of all there marched a company of men with simitars and pistols and a few long-barreled muskets. In their midst they bore a bier on which a corpse lay in full-dress regalia, pearl-embroidered turban, robe of woven silk and gold, waist-shawl set with diamonds. From the richness of the widow's jewels and the magnificent accouterments the corpse displayed, as well as by the size of the escort, my uncle knew the dead man was of great importance in the neighborhood; certainly a wealthy landlord, probably an influential nobleman or even petty prince."
"Poor child!" I murmured. "No wonder she was frightened to the point of fainting. To be burned alive"
"It wasn't terror, sir," said Pemberton. "You see, to be sati, that is, to offer oneself as a voluntary sacrifice upon the funeral pyre, was considered not only the most pious act a widow could perform, it enhanced her husband's standing in the future world. Indian women of that day—and even nowadays—had that drilled into them from infancy, but sometimes the flesh is weaker than the spirit. In Sarastai's case her husband was an old man, so old that she had never been his wife in anything but name, and when he died she flinched at the decree that she must burn herself upon his funeral pyre. To have a widow backslide, especially the widow of such an influential man as he had been, would have cast dishonor on the family and brought undying scandal to the neighborhood; so they filled her up with opium and gunjah, put her best clothes on her and marched her
