Chapter: The train had started punctually.  Among the passengers were a number
of officers, Government officials, and opium and indigo merchants,
whose business called them to the eastern coast.  Passepartout rode in
the same carriage with his master, and a third passenger occupied a
seat opposite to them.  This was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr.
Fogg's whist partners on the Mongolia, now on his way to join his corps
at Benares.  Sir Francis was a tall, fair man of fifty, who had greatly
distinguished himself in the last Sepoy revolt.  He made India his
home, only paying brief visits to England at rare intervals; and was
almost as familiar as a native with the customs, history, and character
of India and its people.  But Phileas Fogg, who was not travelling, but
only describing a circumference, took no pains to inquire into these
subjects; he was a solid body, traversing an orbit around the
terrestrial globe, according to the laws of rational mechanics.  He was
at this moment calculating in his mind the number of hours spent since
his departure from London, and, had it been in his nature to make a
useless demonstration, would have rubbed his hands for satisfaction.
Sir Francis Cromarty had observed the oddity of his travelling
companion--although the only opportunity he had for studying him had
been while he was dealing the cards, and between two rubbers--and
questioned himself whether a human heart really beat beneath this cold
exterior, and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of
nature.  The brigadier-general was free to mentally confess that, of
all the eccentric persons he had ever met, none was comparable to this
product of the exact sciences.

Phileas Fogg had not concealed from Sir Francis his design of going
round the world, nor the circumstances under which he set out; and the
general only saw in the wager a useless eccentricity and a lack of
sound common sense.  In the way this strange gentleman was going on, he
would leave the world without having done any good to himself or
anybody else.

An hour after leaving Bombay the train had passed the viaducts and the
Island of Salcette, and had got into the open country.  At Callyan they
reached the junction of the branch line which descends towards
south-eastern India by Kandallah and Pounah; and, passing Pauwell, they
entered the defiles of the mountains, with their basalt bases, and
their summits crowned with thick and verdant forests.  Phileas Fogg and
Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged a few words from time to time, and now
Sir Francis, reviving the conversation, observed, "Some years ago, Mr.
Fogg, you would have met with a delay at this point which would
probably have lost you your wager."

"How so, Sir Francis?"

"Because the railway stopped at the base of these mountains, which the
passengers were obliged to cross in palanquins or on ponies to
Kandallah, on the other side."

"Such a delay would not have deranged my plans in the least," said Mr.
Fogg.  "I have constantly foreseen the likelihood of certain obstacles."

"But, Mr. Fogg," pursued Sir Francis, "you run the risk of having some
difficulty about this worthy fellow's adventure at the pagoda."
Passepartout, his feet comfortably wrapped in his travelling-blanket,
was sound asleep and did not dream that anybody was talking about him.
"The Government is very severe upon that kind of offence.  It takes
particular care that the religious customs of the Indians should be
respected, and if your servant were caught--"

"Very well, Sir Francis," replied Mr. Fogg; "if he had been caught he
would have been condemned and punished, and then would have quietly
returned to Europe.  I don't see how this affair could have delayed his
master."

The conversation fell again.  During the night the train left the
mountains behind, and passed Nassik, and the next day proceeded over
the flat, well-cultivated country of the Khandeish, with its straggling
villages, above which rose the minarets of the pagodas.  This fertile
territory is watered by numerous small rivers and limpid streams,
mostly tributaries of the Godavery.

Passepartout, on waking and looking out, could not realise that he was
actually crossing India in a railway train.  The locomotive, guided by
an English engineer and fed with English coal, threw out its smoke upon
cotton, coffee, nutmeg, clove, and pepper plantations, while the steam
curled in spirals around groups of palm-trees, in the midst of which
were seen picturesque bungalows, viharis (sort of abandoned
monasteries), and marvellous temples enriched by the exhaustless
ornamentation of Indian architecture.  Then they came upon vast tracts
extending to the horizon, with jungles inhabited by snakes and tigers,
which fled at the noise of the train; succeeded by forests penetrated
by the railway, and still haunted by elephants which, with pensive
eyes, gazed at the train as it passed.  The travellers crossed, beyond
Milligaum, the fatal country so often stained with blood by the
sectaries of the goddess Kali.  Not far off rose Ellora, with its
graceful pagodas, and the famous Aurungabad, capital of the ferocious
Aureng-Zeb, now the chief town of one of the detached provinces of the
kingdom of the Nizam.  It was thereabouts that Feringhea, the Thuggee
chief, king of the stranglers, held his sway.  These ruffians, united
by a secret bond, strangled victims of every age in honour of the
goddess Death, without ever shedding blood; there was a period when
this part of the country could scarcely be travelled over without
corpses being found in every direction.  The English Government has
succeeded in greatly diminishing these murders, though the Thuggees
still exist, and pursue the exercise of their horrible rites.

At half-past twelve the train stopped at Burhampoor where Passepartout
was able to purchase some Indian slippers, ornamented with false
pearls, in which, with evident vanity, he proceeded to encase his feet.
The travellers made a hasty breakfast and started off for Assurghur,
after skirting for a little the banks of the small river Tapty, which
empties into the Gulf of Cambray, near Surat.

Passepartout was now plunged into absorbing reverie.  Up to his arrival
at Bombay, he had entertained hopes that their journey would end there;
but, now that they were plainly whirling across India at full speed, a
sudden change had come over the spirit of his dreams.  His old vagabond
nature returned to him; the fantastic ideas of his youth once more took
possession of him.  He came to regard his master's project as intended
in good earnest, believed in the reality of the bet, and therefore in
the tour of the world and the necessity of making it without fail
within the designated period.  Already he began to worry about possible
delays, and accidents which might happen on the way.  He recognised
himself as being personally interested in the wager, and trembled at
the thought that he might have been the means of losing it by his
unpardonable folly of the night before.  Being much less cool-headed
than Mr. Fogg, he was much more restless, counting and recounting the
days passed over, uttering maledictions when the train stopped, and
accusing it of sluggishness, and mentally blaming Mr. Fogg for not
having bribed the engineer.  The worthy fellow was ignorant that, while
it was possible by such means to hasten the rate of a steamer, it could
not be done on the railway.

The train entered the defiles of the Sutpour Mountains, which separate
the Khandeish from Bundelcund, towards evening.  The next day Sir
Francis Cromarty asked Passepartout what time it was; to which, on
consulting his watch, he replied that it was three in the morning.
This famous timepiece, always regulated on the Greenwich meridian,
which was now some seventy-seven degrees westward, was at least four
hours slow.  Sir Francis corrected Passepartout's time, whereupon the
latter made the same remark that he had done to Fix; and upon the
general insisting that the watch should be regulated in each new
meridian, since he was constantly going eastward, that is in the face
of the sun, and therefore the days were shorter by four minutes for
each degree gone over, Passepartout obstinately refused to alter his
watch, which he kept at London time.  It was an innocent delusion which
could harm no one.

The train stopped, at eight o'clock, in the midst of a glade some
fifteen miles beyond Rothal, where there were several bungalows, and
workmen's cabins.  The conductor, passing along the carriages, shouted,
"Passengers will get out here!"

Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty for an explanation; but the
general could not tell what meant a halt in the midst of this forest of
dates and acacias.

Passepartout, not less surprised, rushed out and speedily returned,
crying: "Monsieur, no more railway!"

"What do you mean?" asked Sir Francis.

"I mean to say that the train isn't going on."

The general at once stepped out, while Phileas Fogg calmly followed
him, and they proceeded together to the conductor.

"Where are we?" asked Sir Francis.

"At the hamlet of Kholby."

"Do we stop here?"

"Certainly.  The railway isn't finished."

"What! not finished?"

"No.  There's still a matter of fifty miles to be laid from here to
Allahabad, where the line begins again."

"But the papers announced the opening of the railway throughout."

"What would you have, officer?  The papers were mistaken."

"Yet you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta," retorted Sir Francis,
who was growing warm.

"No doubt," replied the conductor; "but the passengers know that they
must provide means of transportation for themselves from Kholby to
Allahabad."

Sir Francis was furious.  Passepartout would willingly have knocked the
conductor down, and did not dare to look at his master.

"Sir Francis," said Mr. Fogg quietly, "we will, if you please, look
about for some means of conveyance to Allahabad."

"Mr. Fogg, this is a delay greatly to your disadvantage."

"No, Sir Francis; it was foreseen."

"What!  You knew that the way--"

"Not at all; but I knew that some obstacle or other would sooner or
later arise on my route.  Nothing, therefore, is lost. I have two days,
which I have already gained, to sacrifice.  A steamer leaves Calcutta
for Hong Kong at noon, on the 25th.  This is the 22nd, and we shall
reach Calcutta in time."

There was nothing to say to so confident a response.

It was but too true that the railway came to a termination at this
point.  The papers were like some watches, which have a way of getting
too fast, and had been premature in their announcement of the
completion of the line.  The greater part of the travellers were aware
of this interruption, and, leaving the train, they began to engage such
vehicles as the village could provide four-wheeled palkigharis, waggons
drawn by zebus, carriages that looked like perambulating pagodas,
palanquins, ponies, and what not.

Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after searching the village from end
to end, came back without having found anything.

"I shall go afoot," said Phileas Fogg.

Passepartout, who had now rejoined his master, made a wry grimace, as
he thought of his magnificent, but too frail Indian shoes.  Happily he
too had been looking about him, and, after a moment's hesitation, said,
"Monsieur, I think I have found a means of conveyance."

"What?"

"An elephant!  An elephant that belongs to an Indian who lives but a
hundred steps from here."

"Let's go and see the elephant," replied Mr. Fogg.

They soon reached a small hut, near which, enclosed within some high
palings, was the animal in question.  An Indian came out of the hut,
and, at their request, conducted them within the enclosure.  The
elephant, which its owner had reared, not for a beast of burden, but
for warlike purposes, was half domesticated.  The Indian had begun
already, by often irritating him, and feeding him every three months on
sugar and butter, to impart to him a ferocity not in his nature, this
method being often employed by those who train the Indian elephants for
battle.  Happily, however, for Mr. Fogg, the animal's instruction in
this direction had not gone far, and the elephant still preserved his
natural gentleness.  Kiouni--this was the name of the beast--could
doubtless travel rapidly for a long time, and, in default of any other
means of conveyance, Mr. Fogg resolved to hire him.  But elephants are
far from cheap in India, where they are becoming scarce, the males,
which alone are suitable for circus shows, are much sought, especially
as but few of them are domesticated.  When therefore Mr. Fogg proposed
to the Indian to hire Kiouni, he refused point-blank.  Mr. Fogg
persisted, offering the excessive sum of ten pounds an hour for the
loan of the beast to Allahabad.  Refused.  Twenty pounds?  Refused
also.  Forty pounds?  Still refused.  Passepartout jumped at each
advance; but the Indian declined to be tempted.  Yet the offer was an
alluring one, for, supposing it took the elephant fifteen hours to
reach Allahabad, his owner would receive no less than six hundred
pounds sterling.

Phileas Fogg, without getting in the least flurried, then proposed to
purchase the animal outright, and at first offered a thousand pounds
for him.  The Indian, perhaps thinking he was going to make a great
bargain, still refused.

Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside, and begged him to reflect
before he went any further; to which that gentleman replied that he was
not in the habit of acting rashly, that a bet of twenty thousand pounds
was at stake, that the elephant was absolutely necessary to him, and
that he would secure him if he had to pay twenty times his value.
Returning to the Indian, whose small, sharp eyes, glistening with
avarice, betrayed that with him it was only a question of how great a
price he could obtain.  Mr. Fogg offered first twelve hundred, then
fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, two thousand pounds.  Passepartout,
usually so rubicund, was fairly white with suspense.

At two thousand pounds the Indian yielded.

"What a price, good heavens!" cried Passepartout, "for an elephant."

It only remained now to find a guide, which was comparatively easy.  A
young Parsee, with an intelligent face, offered his services, which Mr.
Fogg accepted, promising so generous a reward as to materially
stimulate his zeal.  The elephant was led out and equipped.  The
Parsee, who was an accomplished elephant driver, covered his back with
a sort of saddle-cloth, and attached to each of his flanks some
curiously uncomfortable howdahs.  Phileas Fogg paid the Indian with
some banknotes which he extracted from the famous carpet-bag, a
proceeding that seemed to deprive poor Passepartout of his vitals.
Then he offered to carry Sir Francis to Allahabad, which the brigadier
gratefully accepted, as one traveller the more would not be likely to
fatigue the gigantic beast.  Provisions were purchased at Kholby, and,
while Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg took the howdahs on either side,
Passepartout got astride the saddle-cloth between them.  The Parsee
perched himself on the elephant's neck, and at nine o'clock they set
out from the village, the animal marching off through the dense forest
of palms by the shortest cut.




In order to shorten the journey, the guide passed to the left of the
line where the railway was still in process of being built.  This line,
owing to the capricious turnings of the Vindhia Mountains, did not
pursue a straight course.  The Parsee, who was quite familiar with the
roads and paths in the district, declared that they would gain twenty
miles by striking directly through the forest.

Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, plunged to the neck in the
peculiar howdahs provided for them, were horribly jostled by the swift
trotting of the elephant, spurred on as he was by the skilful Parsee;
but they endured the discomfort with true British phlegm, talking
little, and scarcely able to catch a glimpse of each other.  As for
Passepartout, who was mounted on the beast's back, and received the
direct force of each concussion as he trod along, he was very careful,
in accordance with his master's advice, to keep his tongue from between
his teeth, as it would otherwise have been bitten off short.  The
worthy fellow bounced from the elephant's neck to his rump, and vaulted
like a clown on a spring-board; yet he laughed in the midst of his
bouncing, and from time to time took a piece of sugar out of his
pocket, and inserted it in Kiouni's trunk, who received it without in
the least slackening his regular trot.

After two hours the guide stopped the elephant, and gave him an hour
for rest, during which Kiouni, after quenching his thirst at a
neighbouring spring, set to devouring the branches and shrubs round
about him.  Neither Sir Francis nor Mr. Fogg regretted the delay, and
both descended with a feeling of relief.  "Why, he's made of iron!"
exclaimed the general, gazing admiringly on Kiouni.

"Of forged iron," replied Passepartout, as he set about preparing a
hasty breakfast.

At noon the Parsee gave the signal of departure.  The country soon
presented a very savage aspect.  Copses of dates and dwarf-palms
succeeded the dense forests; then vast, dry plains, dotted with scanty
shrubs, and sown with great blocks of syenite.  All this portion of
Bundelcund, which is little frequented by travellers, is inhabited by a
fanatical population, hardened in the most horrible practices of the
Hindoo faith.  The English have not been able to secure complete
dominion over this territory, which is subjected to the influence of
rajahs, whom it is almost impossible to reach in their inaccessible
mountain fastnesses. The travellers several times saw bands of
ferocious Indians, who, when they perceived the elephant striding
across-country, made angry and threatening motions.  The Parsee avoided
them as much as possible.  Few animals were observed on the route; even
the monkeys hurried from their path with contortions and grimaces which
convulsed Passepartout with laughter.

In the midst of his gaiety, however, one thought troubled the worthy
servant.  What would Mr. Fogg do with the elephant when he got to
Allahabad?  Would he carry him on with him?  Impossible!  The cost of
transporting him would make him ruinously expensive.  Would he sell
him, or set him free?  The estimable beast certainly deserved some
consideration.  Should Mr. Fogg choose to make him, Passepartout, a
present of Kiouni, he would be very much embarrassed; and these
thoughts did not cease worrying him for a long time.

The principal chain of the Vindhias was crossed by eight in the
evening, and another halt was made on the northern slope, in a ruined
bungalow.  They had gone nearly twenty-five miles that day, and an
equal distance still separated them from the station of Allahabad.

The night was cold.  The Parsee lit a fire in the bungalow with a few
dry branches, and the warmth was very grateful, provisions purchased at
Kholby sufficed for supper, and the travellers ate ravenously.  The
conversation, beginning with a few disconnected phrases, soon gave
place to loud and steady snores.  The guide watched Kiouni, who slept
standing, bolstering himself against the trunk of a large tree.
Nothing occurred during the night to disturb the slumberers, although
occasional growls from panthers and chatterings of monkeys broke the
silence; the more formidable beasts made no cries or hostile
demonstration against the occupants of the bungalow.  Sir Francis slept
heavily, like an honest soldier overcome with fatigue.  Passepartout
was wrapped in uneasy dreams of the bouncing of the day before.  As for
Mr. Fogg, he slumbered as peacefully as if he had been in his serene
mansion in Saville Row.

The journey was resumed at six in the morning; the guide hoped to reach
Allahabad by evening.  In that case, Mr. Fogg would only lose a part of
the forty-eight hours saved since the beginning of the tour.  Kiouni,
resuming his rapid gait, soon descended the lower spurs of the
Vindhias, and towards noon they passed by the village of Kallenger, on
the Cani, one of the branches of the Ganges.  The guide avoided
inhabited places, thinking it safer to keep the open country, which
lies along the first depressions of the basin of the great river.
Allahabad was now only twelve miles to the north-east.  They stopped
under a clump of bananas, the fruit of which, as healthy as bread and
as succulent as cream, was amply partaken of and appreciated.

At two o'clock the guide entered a thick forest which extended several
miles; he preferred to travel under cover of the woods.  They had not
as yet had any unpleasant encounters, and the journey seemed on the
point of being successfully accomplished, when the elephant, becoming
restless, suddenly stopped.

It was then four o'clock.

"What's the matter?" asked Sir Francis, putting out his head.

"I don't know, officer," replied the Parsee, listening attentively to a
confused murmur which came through the thick branches.

The murmur soon became more distinct; it now seemed like a distant
concert of human voices accompanied by brass instruments.  Passepartout
was all eyes and ears.  Mr. Fogg patiently waited without a word.  The
Parsee jumped to the ground, fastened the elephant to a tree, and
plunged into the thicket.  He soon returned, saying:

"A procession of Brahmins is coming this way.  We must prevent their
seeing us, if possible."

The guide unloosed the elephant and led him into a thicket, at the same
time asking the travellers not to stir.  He held himself ready to
bestride the animal at a moment's notice, should flight become
necessary; but he evidently thought that the procession of the faithful
would pass without perceiving them amid the thick foliage, in which
they were wholly concealed.

The discordant tones of the voices and instruments drew nearer, and now
droning songs mingled with the sound of the tambourines and cymbals.
The head of the procession soon appeared beneath the trees, a hundred
paces away; and the strange figures who performed the religious
ceremony were easily 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, recognising 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; these 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 to-morrow
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 no power over these savage territories, and
especially here in Bundelcund.  The whole district north of the
Vindhias is the theatre of incessant murders and pillage."

"The poor wretch!" exclaimed Passepartout, "to be burned alive!"

"Yes," returned Sir Francis, "burned alive.  And, if she were not, you
cannot conceive what treatment she would be obliged to submit to from
her relatives.  They would shave off her hair, feed her on a scanty
allowance of rice, treat her with contempt; she would be looked upon as
an unclean creature, and would die in some corner, like a scurvy dog.
The prospect of so frightful an existence drives these poor creatures
to the sacrifice much more than love or religious fanaticism.
Sometimes, however, the sacrifice is really voluntary, and it requires
the active interference of the Government to prevent it.  Several years
ago, when I was living at Bombay, a young widow asked permission of the
governor to be burned along with her husband's body; but, as you may
imagine, he refused.  The woman left the town, took refuge with an
independent rajah, and there carried out her self-devoted purpose."

While Sir Francis was speaking, the guide shook his head several times,
and now said: "The sacrifice which will take place to-morrow at dawn is
not a voluntary one."

"How do you know?"

"Everybody knows about this affair in Bundelcund."

"But the wretched creature did not seem to be making any resistance,"
observed Sir Francis.

"That was because they had intoxicated her with fumes of hemp and
opium."

"But where are they taking her?"

"To the pagoda of Pillaji, two miles from here; she will pass the night
there."

"And the sacrifice will take place--"

"To-morrow, at the first light of dawn."

The guide now led the elephant out of the thicket, and leaped upon his
neck.  Just at the moment that he was about to urge Kiouni forward with
a peculiar whistle, Mr. Fogg stopped him, and, turning to Sir Francis
Cromarty, said, "Suppose we save this woman."

"Save the woman, Mr. Fogg!"

"I have yet twelve hours to spare; I can devote them to that."

"Why, you are a man of heart!"

"Sometimes," replied Phileas Fogg, quietly; "when I have the time."




The project was a bold one, full of difficulty, perhaps impracticable.
Mr. Fogg was going to risk life, or at least liberty, and therefore the
success of his tour.  But he did not hesitate, and he found in Sir
Francis Cromarty an enthusiastic ally.

As for Passepartout, he was ready for anything that might be proposed.
His master's idea charmed him; he perceived a heart, a soul, under that
icy exterior.  He began to love Phileas Fogg.

There remained the guide: what course would he adopt?  Would he not
take part with the Indians?  In default of his assistance, it was
necessary to be assured of his neutrality.

Sir Francis frankly put the question to him.

"Officers," replied the guide, "I am a Parsee, and this woman is a
Parsee.  Command me as you will."

"Excellent!" said Mr. Fogg.

"However," resumed the guide, "it is certain, not only that we shall
risk our lives, but horrible tortures, if we are taken."

"That is foreseen," replied Mr. Fogg.  "I think we must wait till night
before acting."

"I think so," said the guide.

The worthy Indian then gave some account of the victim, who, he said,
was a celebrated beauty of the Parsee race, and the daughter of a
wealthy Bombay merchant.  She had received a thoroughly English
education in that city, and, from her manners and intelligence, would
be thought an European.  Her name was Aouda.  Left an orphan, she was
married against her will to the old rajah of Bundelcund; and, knowing
the fate that awaited her, she escaped, was retaken, and devoted by the
rajah's relatives, who had an interest in her death, to the sacrifice
from which it seemed she could not escape.

The Parsee's narrative only confirmed Mr. Fogg and his companions in
their generous design.  It was decided that the guide should direct the
elephant towards the pagoda of Pillaji, which he accordingly approached
as quickly as possible.  They halted, half an hour afterwards, in a
copse, some five hundred feet from the pagoda, where they were well
concealed; but they could hear the groans and cries of the fakirs
distinctly.

They then discussed the means of getting at the victim.  The guide was
familiar with the pagoda of Pillaji, in which, as he declared, the
young woman was imprisoned.  Could they enter any of its doors while
the whole party of Indians was plunged in a drunken sleep, or was it
safer to attempt to make a hole in the walls?  This could only be
determined at the moment and the place themselves; but it was certain
that the abduction must be made that night, and not when, at break of
day, the victim was led to her funeral pyre.  Then no human
intervention could save her.

As soon as night fell, about six o'clock, they decided to make a
reconnaissance around the pagoda.  The cries of the fakirs were just
ceasing; the Indians were in the act of plunging themselves into the
drunkenness caused by liquid opium mingled with hemp, and it might be
possible to slip between them to the temple itself.

The Parsee, leading the others, noiselessly crept through the wood, and
in ten minutes they found themselves on the banks of a small stream,
whence, by the light of the rosin torches, they perceived a pyre of
wood, on the top of which lay the embalmed body of the rajah, which was
to be burned with his wife.  The pagoda, whose minarets loomed above
the trees in the deepening dusk, stood a hundred steps away.

"Come!" whispered the guide.

He slipped more cautiously than ever through the brush, followed by his
companions; the silence around was only broken by the low murmuring of
the wind among the branches.

Soon the Parsee stopped on the borders of the glade, which was lit up
by the torches.  The ground was covered by groups of the Indians,
motionless in their drunken sleep; it seemed a battlefield strewn with
the dead.  Men, women, and children lay together.

In the background, among the trees, the pagoda of Pillaji loomed
distinctly.  Much to the guide's disappointment, the guards of the
rajah, lighted by torches, were watching at the doors and marching to
and fro with naked sabres; probably the priests, too, were watching
within.

The Parsee, now convinced that it was impossible to force an entrance
to the temple, advanced no farther, but led his companions back again.
Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty also saw that nothing could be
attempted in that direction.  They stopped, and engaged in a whispered
colloquy.

"It is only eight now," said the brigadier, "and these guards may also
go to sleep."

"It is not impossible," returned the Parsee.

They lay down at the foot of a tree, and waited.

The time seemed long; the guide ever and anon left them to take an
observation on the edge of the wood, but the guards watched steadily by
the glare of the torches, and a dim light crept through the windows of
the pagoda.

They waited till midnight; but no change took place among the guards,
and it became apparent that their yielding to sleep could not be
counted on.  The other plan must be carried out; an opening in the
walls of the pagoda must be made.  It remained to ascertain whether the
priests were watching by the side of their victim as assiduously as
were the soldiers at the door.

After a last consultation, the guide announced that he was ready for
the attempt, and advanced, followed by the others.  They took a
roundabout way, so as to get at the pagoda on the rear.  They reached
the walls about half-past twelve, without having met anyone; here there
was no guard, nor were there either windows or doors.

The night was dark.  The moon, on the wane, scarcely left the horizon,
and was covered with heavy clouds; the height of the trees deepened the
darkness.

It was not enough to reach the walls; an opening in them must be
accomplished, and to attain this purpose the party only had their
pocket-knives.  Happily the temple walls were built of brick and wood,
which could be penetrated with little difficulty; after one brick had
been taken out, the rest would yield easily.

They set noiselessly to work, and the Parsee on one side and
Passepartout on the other began to loosen the bricks so as to make an
aperture two feet wide.  They were getting on rapidly, when suddenly a
cry was heard in the interior of the temple, followed almost instantly
by other cries replying from the outside.  Passepartout and the guide
stopped.  Had they been heard?  Was the alarm being given?  Common
prudence urged them to retire, and they did so, followed by Phileas
Fogg and Sir Francis.  They again hid themselves in the wood, and
waited till the disturbance, whatever it might be, ceased, holding
themselves ready to resume their attempt without delay.  But, awkwardly
enough, the guards now appeared at the rear of the temple, and there
installed themselves, in readiness to prevent a surprise.

It would be difficult to describe the disappointment of the party, thus
interrupted in their work.  They could not now reach the victim; how,
then, could they save her?  Sir Francis shook his fists, Passepartout
was beside himself, and the guide gnashed his teeth with rage.  The
tranquil Fogg waited, without betraying any emotion.

"We have nothing to do but to go away," whispered Sir Francis.

"Nothing but to go away," echoed the guide.

"Stop," said Fogg.  "I am only due at Allahabad tomorrow before noon."

"But what can you hope to do?" asked Sir Francis.  "In a few hours it
will be daylight, and--"

"The chance which now seems lost may present itself at the last moment."

Sir Francis would have liked to read Phileas Fogg's eyes.  What was
this cool Englishman thinking of?  Was he planning to make a rush for
the young woman at the very moment of the sacrifice, and boldly snatch
her from her executioners?

This would be utter folly, and it was hard to admit that Fogg was such
a fool.  Sir Francis consented, however, to remain to the end of this
terrible drama.  The guide led them to the rear of the glade, where
they were able to observe the sleeping groups.

Meanwhile Passepartout, who had perched himself on the lower branches
of a tree, was resolving an idea which had at first struck him like a
flash, and which was now firmly lodged in his brain.

He had commenced by saying to himself, "What folly!" and then he
repeated, "Why not, after all?  It's a chance,--perhaps the only one; and
with such sots!" Thinking thus, he slipped, with the suppleness of a
serpent, to the lowest branches, the ends of which bent almost to the
ground.

The hours passed, and the lighter shades now announced the approach of
day, though it was not yet light.  This was the moment.  The slumbering
multitude became animated, the tambourines sounded, songs and cries
arose; the hour of the sacrifice had come.  The doors of the pagoda
swung open, and a bright light escaped from its interior, in the midst
of which Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis espied the victim.  She seemed,
having shaken off the stupor of intoxication, to be striving to escape
from her executioner.  Sir Francis's heart throbbed; and, convulsively
seizing Mr. Fogg's hand, found in it an open knife.  Just at this
moment the crowd began to move.  The young woman had again fallen into
a stupor caused by the fumes of hemp, and passed among the fakirs, who
escorted her with their wild, religious cries.

Phileas Fogg and his companions, mingling in the rear ranks of the
crowd, followed; and in two minutes they reached the banks of the
stream, and stopped fifty paces from the pyre, upon which still lay the
rajah's corpse.  In the semi-obscurity they saw the victim, quite
senseless, stretched out beside her husband's body. Then a torch was
brought, and the wood, heavily soaked with oil, instantly took fire.

At this moment Sir Francis and the guide seized Phileas Fogg, who, in
an instant of mad generosity, was about to rush upon the pyre.  But he
had quickly pushed them aside, when the whole scene suddenly changed.
A cry of terror arose.  The whole multitude prostrated themselves,
terror-stricken, on the ground.

The old rajah was not dead, then, since he rose of a sudden, like a
spectre, took up his wife in his arms, and descended from the pyre in
the midst of the clouds of smoke, which only heightened his ghostly
appearance.

Fakirs and soldiers and priests, seized with instant terror, lay there,
with their faces on the ground, not daring to lift their eyes and
behold such a prodigy.

The inanimate victim was borne along by the vigorous arms which
supported her, and which she did not seem in the least to burden.  Mr.
Fogg and Sir Francis stood erect, the Parsee bowed his head, and
Passepartout was, no doubt, scarcely less stupefied.

The resuscitated rajah approached Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg, and, in an
abrupt tone, said, "Let us be off!"

It was Passepartout himself, who had slipped upon the pyre in the midst
of the smoke and, profiting by the still overhanging darkness, had
delivered the young woman from death!  It was Passepartout who, playing
his part with a happy audacity, had passed through the crowd amid the
general terror.

A moment after all four of the party had disappeared in the woods, and
the elephant was bearing them away at a rapid pace. But the cries and
noise, and a ball which whizzed through Phileas Fogg's hat, apprised
them that the trick had been discovered.

The old rajah's body, indeed, now appeared upon the burning pyre; and
the priests, recovered from their terror, perceived that an abduction
had taken place.  They hastened into the forest, followed by the
soldiers, who fired a volley after the fugitives; but the latter
rapidly increased the distance between them, and ere long found
themselves beyond the reach of the bullets and arrows.




The rash exploit had been accomplished; and for an hour Passepartout
laughed gaily at his success.  Sir Francis pressed the worthy fellow's
hand, and his master said, "Well done!" which, from him, was high
commendation; to which Passepartout replied that all the credit of the
affair belonged to Mr. Fogg.  As for him, he had only been struck with
a "queer" idea; and he laughed to think that for a few moments he,
Passepartout, the ex-gymnast, ex-sergeant fireman, had been the spouse
of a charming woman, a venerable, embalmed rajah!  As for the young
Indian woman, she had been unconscious throughout of what was passing,
and now, wrapped up in a travelling-blanket, was reposing in one of the
howdahs.

The elephant, thanks to the skilful guidance of the Parsee, was
advancing rapidly through the still darksome forest, and, an hour after
leaving the pagoda, had crossed a vast plain.  They made a halt at
seven o'clock, the young woman being still in a state of complete
prostration.  The guide made her drink a little brandy and water, but
the drowsiness which stupefied her could not yet be shaken off.  Sir
Francis, who was familiar with the effects of the intoxication produced
by the fumes of hemp, reassured his companions on her account.  But he
was more disturbed at the prospect of her future fate.  He told Phileas
Fogg that, should Aouda remain in India, she would inevitably fall
again into the hands of her executioners.  These fanatics were
scattered throughout the county, and would, despite the English police,
recover their victim at Madras, Bombay, or Calcutta.  She would only be
safe by quitting India for ever.

Phileas Fogg replied that he would reflect upon the matter.

The station at Allahabad was reached about ten o'clock, and, the
interrupted line of railway being resumed, would enable them to reach
Calcutta in less than twenty-four hours.  Phileas Fogg would thus be
able to arrive in time to take the steamer which left Calcutta the next
day, October 25th, at noon, for Hong Kong.

The young woman was placed in one of the waiting-rooms of the station,
whilst Passepartout was charged with purchasing for her various
articles of toilet, a dress, shawl, and some furs; for which his master
gave him unlimited credit.  Passepartout started off forthwith, and
found himself in the streets of Allahabad, that is, the City of God,
one of the most venerated in India, being built at the junction of the
two sacred rivers, Ganges and Jumna, the waters of which attract
pilgrims from every part of the peninsula.  The Ganges, according to
the legends of the Ramayana, rises in heaven, whence, owing to Brahma's
agency, it descends to the earth.

Passepartout made it a point, as he made his purchases, to take a good
look at the city.  It was formerly defended by a noble fort, which has
since become a state prison; its commerce has dwindled away, and
Passepartout in vain looked about him for such a bazaar as he used to
frequent in Regent Street.  At last he came upon an elderly, crusty
Jew, who sold second-hand articles, and from whom he purchased a dress
of Scotch stuff, a large mantle, and a fine otter-skin pelisse, for
which he did not hesitate to pay seventy-five pounds.  He then returned
triumphantly to the station.

The influence to which the priests of Pillaji had subjected Aouda began
gradually to yield, and she became more herself, so that her fine eyes
resumed all their soft Indian expression.

When the poet-king, Ucaf Uddaul, celebrates the charms of the queen of
Ahmehnagara, he speaks thus:

"Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious
contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and
freshness.  Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama,
the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest
reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of
Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes.  Her teeth,
fine, equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops
in a passion-flower's half-enveloped breast.  Her delicately formed
ears, her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the
lotus-bud, glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of
Ceylon, the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda.  Her narrow and supple
waist, which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her
rounded figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower
displays the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of
her tunic she seems to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike
hand of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor."

It is enough to say, without applying this poetical rhapsody to Aouda,
that she was a charming woman, in all the European acceptation of the
phrase.  She spoke English with great purity, and the guide had not
exaggerated in saying that the young Parsee had been transformed by her
bringing up.

The train was about to start from Allahabad, and Mr. Fogg proceeded to
pay the guide the price agreed upon for his service, and not a farthing
more; which astonished Passepartout, who remembered all that his master
owed to the guide's devotion.  He had, indeed, risked his life in the
adventure at Pillaji, and, if he should be caught afterwards by the
Indians, he would with difficulty escape their vengeance.  Kiouni,
also, must be disposed of.  What should be done with the elephant,
which had been so dearly purchased?  Phileas Fogg had already
determined this question.

"Parsee," said he to the guide, "you have been serviceable and devoted.
I have paid for your service, but not for your devotion.  Would you
like to have this elephant?  He is yours."

The guide's eyes glistened.

"Your honour is giving me a fortune!" cried he.

"Take him, guide," returned Mr. Fogg, "and I shall still be your
debtor."

"Good!" exclaimed Passepartout.  "Take him, friend.  Kiouni is a brave
and faithful beast."  And, going up to the elephant, he gave him
several lumps of sugar, saying, "Here, Kiouni, here, here."

The elephant grunted out his satisfaction, and, clasping Passepartout
around the waist with his trunk, lifted him as high as his head.
Passepartout, not in the least alarmed, caressed the animal, which
replaced him gently on the ground.

Soon after, Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout,
installed in a carriage with Aouda, who had the best seat, were
whirling at full speed towards Benares.  It was a run of eighty miles,
and was accomplished in two hours.  During the journey, the young woman
fully recovered her senses.  What was her astonishment to find herself
in this carriage, on the railway, dressed in European habiliments, and
with travellers who were quite strangers to her!  Her companions first
set about fully reviving her with a little liquor, and then Sir Francis
narrated to her what had passed, dwelling upon the courage with which
Phileas Fogg had not hesitated to risk his life to save her, and
recounting the happy sequel of the venture, the result of
Passepartout's rash idea.  Mr. Fogg said nothing; while Passepartout,
abashed, kept repeating that "it wasn't worth telling."

Aouda pathetically thanked her deliverers, rather with tears than
words; her fine eyes interpreted her gratitude better than her lips.
Then, as her thoughts strayed back to the scene of the sacrifice, and
recalled the dangers which still menaced her, she shuddered with terror.

Phileas Fogg understood what was passing in Aouda's mind, and offered,
in order to reassure her, to escort her to Hong Kong, where she might
remain safely until the affair was hushed up--an offer which she
eagerly and gratefully accepted.  She had, it seems, a Parsee relation,
who was one of the principal merchants of Hong Kong, which is wholly an
English city, though on an island on the Chinese coast.

At half-past twelve the train stopped at Benares.  The Brahmin legends
assert that this city is built on the site of the ancient Casi, which,
like Mahomet's tomb, was once suspended between heaven and earth;
though the Benares of to-day, which the Orientalists call the Athens of
India, stands quite unpoetically on the solid earth, Passepartout
caught glimpses of its brick houses and clay huts, giving an aspect of
desolation to the place, as the train entered it.

Benares was Sir Francis Cromarty's destination, the troops he was
rejoining being encamped some miles northward of the city.  He bade
adieu to Phileas Fogg, wishing him all success, and expressing the hope
that he would come that way again in a less original but more
profitable fashion.  Mr. Fogg lightly pressed him by the hand.  The
parting of Aouda, who did not forget what she owed to Sir Francis,
betrayed more warmth; and, as for Passepartout, he received a hearty
shake of the hand from the gallant general.

The railway, on leaving Benares, passed for a while along the valley of
the Ganges.  Through the windows of their carriage the travellers had
glimpses of the diversified landscape of Behar, with its mountains
clothed in verdure, its fields of barley, wheat, and corn, its jungles
peopled with green alligators, its neat villages, and its still
thickly-leaved forests.  Elephants were bathing in the waters of the
sacred river, and groups of Indians, despite the advanced season and
chilly air, were performing solemnly their pious ablutions.  These were
fervent Brahmins, the bitterest foes of Buddhism, their deities being
Vishnu, the solar god, Shiva, the divine impersonation of natural
forces, and Brahma, the supreme ruler of priests and legislators.  What
would these divinities think of India, anglicised as it is to-day, with
steamers whistling and scudding along the Ganges, frightening the gulls
which float upon its surface, the turtles swarming along its banks, and
the faithful dwelling upon its borders?

The panorama passed before their eyes like a flash, save when the steam
concealed it fitfully from the view; the travellers could scarcely
discern the fort of Chupenie, twenty miles south-westward from Benares,
the ancient stronghold of the rajahs of Behar; or Ghazipur and its
famous rose-water factories; or the tomb of Lord Cornwallis, rising on
the left bank of the Ganges; the fortified town of Buxar, or Patna, a
large manufacturing and trading-place, where is held the principal
opium market of India; or Monghir, a more than European town, for it is
as English as Manchester or Birmingham, with its iron foundries,
edgetool factories, and high chimneys puffing clouds of black smoke
heavenward.

Night came on; the train passed on at full speed, in the midst of the
roaring of the tigers, bears, and wolves which fled before the
locomotive; and the marvels of Bengal, Golconda ruined Gour,
Murshedabad, the ancient capital, Burdwan, Hugly, and the French town
of Chandernagor, where Passepartout would have been proud to see his
country's flag flying, were hidden from their view in the darkness.

Calcutta was reached at seven in the morning, and the packet left for
Hong Kong at noon; so that Phileas Fogg had five hours before him.

According to his journal, he was due at Calcutta on the 25th of
October, and that was the exact date of his actual arrival.  He was
therefore neither behind-hand nor ahead of time.  The two days gained
between London and Bombay had been lost, as has been seen, in the
journey across India.  But it is not to be supposed that Phileas Fogg
regretted them.




The train entered the station, and Passepartout jumping out first, was
followed by Mr. Fogg, who assisted his fair companion to descend.
Phileas Fogg intended to proceed at once to the Hong Kong steamer, in
order to get Aouda comfortably settled for the voyage.  He was
unwilling to leave her while they were still on dangerous ground.

Just as he was leaving the station a policeman came up to him, and
said, "Mr. Phileas Fogg?"

"I am he."

"Is this man your servant?" added the policeman, pointing to
Passepartout.

"Yes."

"Be so good, both of you, as to follow me."

Mr. Fogg betrayed no surprise whatever.  The policeman was a
representative of the law, and law is sacred to an Englishman.
Passepartout tried to reason about the matter, but the policeman tapped
him with his stick, and Mr. Fogg made him a signal to obey.

"May this young lady go with us?" asked he.

"She may," replied the policeman.

Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout were conducted to a palkigahri, a
sort of four-wheeled carriage, drawn by two horses, in which they took
their places and were driven away.  No one spoke during the twenty
minutes which elapsed before they reached their destination.  They
first passed through the "black town," with its narrow streets, its
miserable, dirty huts, and squalid population; then through the
"European town," which presented a relief in its bright brick mansions,
shaded by coconut-trees and bristling with masts, where, although it
was early morning, elegantly dressed horsemen and handsome equipages
were passing back and forth.

The carriage stopped before a modest-looking house, which, however, did
not have the appearance of a private mansion.  The policeman having
requested his prisoners--for so, truly, they might be called--to descend,
conducted them into a room with barred windows, and said:  "You will
appear before Judge Obadiah at half-past eight."

He then retired, and closed the door.

"Why, we are prisoners!" exclaimed Passepartout, falling into a chair.

Aouda, with an emotion she tried to conceal, said to Mr. Fogg: "Sir,
you must leave me to my fate!  It is on my account that you receive
this treatment, it is for having saved me!"

Phileas Fogg contented himself with saying that it was impossible.  It
was quite unlikely that he should be arrested for preventing a suttee.
The complainants would not dare present themselves with such a charge.
There was some mistake.  Moreover, he would not, in any event, abandon
Aouda, but would escort her to Hong Kong.

"But the steamer leaves at noon!" observed Passepartout, nervously.

"We shall be on board by noon," replied his master, placidly.

It was said so positively that Passepartout could not help muttering to
himself, "Parbleu that's certain!  Before noon we shall be on board."
But he was by no means reassured.

At half-past eight the door opened, the policeman appeared, and,
requesting them to follow him, led the way to an adjoining hall.  It
was evidently a court-room, and a crowd of Europeans and natives
already occupied the rear of the apartment.

Mr. Fogg and his two companions took their places on a bench opposite
the desks of the magistrate and his clerk.  Immediately after, Judge
Obadiah, a fat, round man, followed by the clerk, entered.  He
proceeded to take down a wig which was hanging on a nail, and put it
hurriedly on his head.

"The first case," said he.  Then, putting his hand to his head, he
exclaimed, "Heh!  This is not my wig!"

"No, your worship," returned the clerk, "it is mine."

"My dear Mr. Oysterpuff, how can a judge give a wise sentence in a
clerk's wig?"

The wigs were exchanged.

Passepartout was getting nervous, for the hands on the face of the big
clock over the judge seemed to go around with terrible rapidity.

"The first case," repeated Judge Obadiah.

"Phileas Fogg?" demanded Oysterpuff.

"I am here," replied Mr. Fogg.

"Passepartout?"

"Present," responded Passepartout.

"Good," said the judge.  "You have been looked for, prisoners, for two
days on the trains from Bombay."

"But of what are we accused?" asked Passepartout, impatiently.

"You are about to be informed."

"I am an English subject, sir," said Mr. Fogg, "and I have the right--"

"Have you been ill-treated?"

"Not at all."

"Very well; let the complainants come in."

A door was swung open by order of the judge, and three Indian priests
entered.

"That's it," muttered Passepartout; "these are the rogues who were
going to burn our young lady."

The priests took their places in front of the judge, and the clerk
proceeded to read in a loud voice a complaint of sacrilege against
Phileas Fogg and his servant, who were accused of having violated a
place held consecrated by the Brahmin religion.

"You hear the charge?" asked the judge.

"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Fogg, consulting his watch, "and I admit it."

"You admit it?"

"I admit it, and I wish to hear these priests admit, in their turn,
what they were going to do at the pagoda of Pillaji."

The priests looked at each other; they did not seem to understand what
was said.

"Yes," cried Passepartout, warmly; "at the pagoda of Pillaji, where
they were on the point of burning their victim."

The judge stared with astonishment, and the priests were stupefied.

"What victim?" said Judge Obadiah.  "Burn whom?  In Bombay itself?"

"Bombay?" cried Passepartout.

"Certainly.  We are not talking of the pagoda of Pillaji, but of the
pagoda of Malabar Hill, at Bombay."

"And as a proof," added the clerk, "here are the desecrator's very
shoes, which he left behind him."

Whereupon he placed a pair of shoes on his desk.

"My shoes!" cried Passepartout, in his surprise permitting this
imprudent exclamation to escape him.

The confusion of master and man, who had quite forgotten the affair at
Bombay, for which they were now detained at Calcutta, may be imagined.

Fix the detective, had foreseen the advantage which Passepartout's
escapade gave him, and, delaying his departure for twelve hours, had
consulted the priests of Malabar Hill.  Knowing that the English
authorities dealt very severely with this kind of misdemeanour, he
promised them a goodly sum in damages, and sent them forward to
Calcutta by the next train.  Owing to the delay caused by the rescue of
the young widow, Fix and the priests reached the Indian capital before
Mr. Fogg and his servant, the magistrates having been already warned by
a dispatch to arrest them should they arrive.  Fix's disappointment
when he learned that Phileas Fogg had not made his appearance in
Calcutta may be imagined.  He made up his mind that the robber had
stopped somewhere on the route and taken refuge in the southern
provinces.  For twenty-four hours Fix watched the station with feverish
anxiety; at last he was rewarded by seeing Mr. Fogg and Passepartout
arrive, accompanied by a young woman, whose presence he was wholly at a
loss to explain.  He hastened for a policeman; and this was how the
party came to be arrested and brought before Judge Obadiah.

Had Passepartout been a little less preoccupied, he would have espied
the detective ensconced in a corner of the court-room, watching the
proceedings with an interest easily understood; for the warrant had
failed to reach him at Calcutta, as it had done at Bombay and Suez.

Judge Obadiah had unfortunately caught Passepartout's rash exclamation,
which the poor fellow would have given the world to recall.

"The facts are admitted?" asked the judge.

"Admitted," replied Mr. Fogg, coldly.

"Inasmuch," resumed the judge, "as the English law protects equally and
sternly the religions of the Indian people, and as the man Passepartout
has admitted that he violated the sacred pagoda of Malabar Hill, at
Bombay, on the 20th of October, I condemn the said Passepartout to
imprisonment for fifteen days and a fine of three hundred pounds."

"Three hundred pounds!" cried Passepartout, startled at the largeness
of the sum.

"Silence!" shouted the constable.

"And inasmuch," continued the judge, "as it is not proved that the act
was not done by the connivance of the master with the servant, and as
the master in any case must be held responsible for the acts of his
paid servant, I condemn Phileas Fogg to a week's imprisonment and a
fine of one hundred and fifty pounds."

Fix rubbed his hands softly with satisfaction; if Phileas Fogg could be
detained in Calcutta a week, it would be more than time for the warrant
to arrive.  Passepartout was stupefied.  This sentence ruined his
master.  A wager of twenty thousand pounds lost, because he, like a
precious fool, had gone into that abominable pagoda!

Phileas Fogg, as self-composed as if the judgment did not in the least
concern him, did not even lift his eyebrows while it was being
pronounced.  Just as the clerk was calling the next case, he rose, and
said, "I offer bail."

"You have that right," returned the judge.

Fix's blood ran cold, but he resumed his composure when he heard the
judge announce that the bail required for each prisoner would be one
thousand pounds.

"I will pay it at once," said Mr. Fogg, taking a roll of bank-bills
from the carpet-bag, which Passepartout had by him, and placing them on
the clerk's desk.

"This sum will be restored to you upon your release from prison," said
the judge.  "Meanwhile, you are liberated on bail."

"Come!" said Phileas Fogg to his servant.

"But let them at least give me back my shoes!" cried Passepartout
angrily.

"Ah, these are pretty dear shoes!" he muttered, as they were handed to
him.  "More than a thousand pounds apiece; besides, they pinch my feet."

Mr. Fogg, offering his arm to Aouda, then departed, followed by the
crestfallen Passepartout.  Fix still nourished hopes that the robber
would not, after all, leave the two thousand pounds behind him, but
would decide to serve out his week in jail, and issued forth on Mr.
Fogg's traces.  That gentleman took a carriage, and the party were soon
landed on one of the quays.

The Rangoon was moored half a mile off in the harbour, its signal of
departure hoisted at the mast-head.  Eleven o'clock was striking; Mr.
Fogg was an hour in advance of time.  Fix saw them leave the carriage
and push off in a boat for the steamer, and stamped his feet with
disappointment.

"The rascal is off, after all!" he exclaimed.  "Two thousand pounds
sacrificed!  He's as prodigal as a thief!  I'll follow him to the end
of the world if necessary; but, at the rate he is going on, the stolen
money will soon be exhausted."

The detective was not far wrong in making this conjecture.  Since
leaving London, what with travelling expenses, bribes, the purchase of
the elephant, bails, and fines, Mr. Fogg had already spent more than
five thousand pounds on the way, and the percentage of the sum
recovered from the bank robber promised to the detectives, was rapidly
diminishing.

 The train leaves on time, and joining Fogg and Passepartout in their compartment is a man named Sir Francis Cromarty, who Fogg played whist with on the Mongolia, and who lives in India, traveling to England only rarely. Phileas Fogg's odd mission and odd personality generally intrigue Sir Francis, and he wonders what he is really like beneath his cold exterior. He believes that Fogg's wager is useless, since he would leave the world without having done any good for himself or someone else. Sir Francis tells Fogg that five years ago on this train, he would have encountered a delay that would have lost him his bet, since the railway lines were not connected and had to cross the mountains on ponies to get to where the train restarted on the other side. He also tells Fogg that he might be delayed because of what Passepartout did at the pagoda, since the government is very strict about violations of the religious customs of the Indians. Fogg insists that nothing would delay him. Passepartout is in awe of where they are, astonished by the wildness of the Indian villages and jungles that they pass through. He realizes he has experienced a change in mindset; when before he wished their journey would end, he is now fully vested in the wager and believes in what Mr. Fogg is doing. He is worried by the prospect of delays, and since he is not as cool-headed as Fogg, gets more worked up at the prospect of anything holding them up. Suddenly one evening the train stops; apparently the papers were mistaken when they said that the railway had been finished, and there are fifty miles for passengers to traverse before they can pick up the train again. Passengers must find a means of getting between the two train lines themselves. Fogg is not fazed, insisting that he has two days gained to make up the time. They search the village in which they have stopped for a means of conveyance, and Passepartout finds a man with an elephant. Fogg tries to bribe the man, who at first does not budge; eventually, the man lets Fogg purchase the elephant for the hefty sum of two thousand pounds. They acquire a young Parsee to serve as their guide. They begin their fifty-mile journey on the elephant, whose name is Kiouni. The area they travel through is wild and full of Indian tribes who are described as being ferocious. They camp for the night and begin the trip again in the morning, hoping to make it by the following evening. However, they are interrupted on their trek by a procession of Indians, who, according to Sir Francis, are on their way to make a human sacrifice of a widow whose husband, a prince, has died. Fogg calls the practice barbarous, wondering how the English have not put a stop to such things yet, and Passepartout is astounded. Sir Francis says often this sacrifice is voluntary, but the Parsee guide interrupts and says that everyone who lives in this area knows that this particular sacrifice is not voluntary. Fogg makes the daring suggestion that they attempt to save the woman in the twelve hours he has to spare. The Parsee tells them about the woman, who is a celebrated beauty of the Parsee race named Aouda who had been educated in English as the daughter of a wealthy Bombay merchant. But she was married against her will to this old rajah. That night they wait for the guards to fall asleep and then try to make a hole in the wall of the pagoda in which the woman has been imprisoned. The guards hear, though, and they realize they cannot continue like this. They wait out the night, hoping that an opportunity to save her will arise, and suddenly Passepartout gets an idea. He disguises himself as the body of the dead rajah, then leaps up and grabs the woman who is about to be sacrificed. The group escapes before the Indians can chase them. Passepartout is praised for his genius, and they continue on, making it to the start of the train with enough time to travel to Calcutta and catch the necessary steamer to Hong Kong. Passepartout goes to buy clothes and necessary items for Aouda, who will be coming with them to Hong Kong, where she says one of her Parsee relations lives. They are all quite taken with Aouda, who is incredibly beautiful, and who is extremely refined because of her upbringing. When she comes fully to her senses once again, they explain to her exactly what happened. As payment for his services, Fogg gives the Parsee the elephant he purchased. Sir Francis leaves them on the train journey at a different city that is his destination. They travel along the Ganges River and arrive in Calcutta exactly on schedule, having lost the two days they had previously gained. As soon as they leave the train in Calcutta, however, they are detained as prisoners and told they need to appear before a judge. Passepartout is appalled and worried, but Fogg insists that it will not delay their trip. There are priests there, accusing them of violating a consecrated religious place. Passepartout and Fogg believe they are talking about what happened with saving Aouda, but it turns out this is about Passepartout entering the sacred pagoda in Bombay without shoes. Fix the detective had reported it in order to delay them so he could arrest Fogg. Passepartout is condemned to fifteen days in prison and a fine, and Fogg gets a sentence as well, since he should be held responsible for the acts of his servant. Fogg instead pays a large sum of money in bail for both of them, spending two thousand pounds on it, and Fix is extremely angry that Fogg has gotten away again.

