During the performance of the funeral rites, the beautiful widow had remained apart, absorbed in the solemn intensity of her own thoughts. The death of a husband whom she tenderly loved shook her heart with a severe pang, and the thought of the awful sacrifice which his death imposed upon her dilated her bosom with a deep and palpable terror; still she resolved to die. With her the high sense of duty was paramount over every selfish consideration, and she braced her resolution to undergo one of the most fearful sacrifices which the madness of bigotry has imposed upon the credulity of devout but imbecile minds.
The body of her husband was already upon the fatal pyre, and all things were ready for her to consummate that act of devotion, which, as she had been taught to believe, should secure her an eternal communion with her consort in paradise. The Brahmin approached her to announce that she was waited for. He advanced towards her alone, and bade her be of good cheer.
“Thou shalt not perish,” he cried; “trust to me and I will save thee, to reap the harvest of joy in an earthly paradise, before you ascend to one of brighter promise indeed, but of more remote certainty.”
“What mean you? My doom is fixed. I must join my husband upon the funeral pile, that our souls may ascend together to that sphere which his spirit is destined to enter.”
“But would you not rather evade this fiery death?”
“Why should I? Is it not imposed upon us by a wise and immutable will?—how then can I evade it?”
“Would you rather live?”
“Not if it be my duty to die.”
“You are not bound to perish unless you desire it. The deity will absolve you from the obligation upon certain conditions.”
“What are they?”