When he died， Shobhani， who was married to him in the spirit， recited to herself these sayings：

　　"There are thirty-five millions of hairs on the human body. The woman who ascends the pile with her husband will remain so many years in heaven. As the snake-catcher draws the serpent from his hole， so she， rescuing her husband from hell， rejoices with him； aye， though he may have sunk to a region of torment， be restrained in dreadful bonds， have reached the place of anguish， be exhausted of strength， and afflicted and tortured for his crimes. No other effectual duty is known for virtuous women at any time after the death of their lords， except casting themselves into the same fire. As long as a woman in her successive transmigrations， shall decline burning herself， like a faithful wife， in the same fire with her deceased lord， so long shall she not be exempted from springing again to life in the body of some female animal."

　　Therefore the beautiful Shobhani， virgin and wife， resolved to burn herself， and to make the next life of the thief certain. She showed her courage by thrusting her finger into a torch flame till it became a cinder， and she solemnly bathed in the nearest stream.

　　A hole was dug in the ground， and upon a bed of green tree-trunks were heaped hemp， pitch， faggots， and clarified butter， to form the funeral pyre. The dead body， anointed， bathed， and dressed in new clothes， was then laid upon the heap， which was some two feet high. Shobhani prayed that as long as fourteen Indras reign， or as many years as there are hairs in her head， she might abide in heaven with her husband， and be waited upon by the heavenly dancers. She then presented her ornaments and little gifts of corn to her friends， tied some cotton round both wrists， put two new combs in her hair， painted her forehead， and tied up in the end of her body-cloth clean parched rice[FN#112] and cowrie-shells. These she gave to the bystanders， as she walked seven times round the funeral pyre， upon which lay the body. She then ascended the heap of wood， sat down upon it， and taking the thief's head in her lap， without cords or levers or upper layer or faggots， she ordered the pile to be lighted. The crowd standing around set fire to it in several places， drummed their drums， blew their conchs， and raised a loud cry of "Hari bol！ Hari bol！ [FN#113]" Straw was thrown on， and pitch and clarified butter were freely poured out. But Shobhani's was a Sahamaran， a blessed easy death： no part of her body was seen to move after the pyre was lighted——in fact， she seemed to die before the flame touched her.

　　[FN#112] Properly speaking， the husbandman should plough with not fewer than four bullocks； but few can afford this. If he plough with a cow or a bullock， and not with a bull， the rice produced by his ground is unclean， and may not be used in any religious ceremony.

　　[FN#113] A shout of triumph， like our "Huzza" or "Hurrah！" of late degraded into "Hooray." "Hari bol" is of course religious， meaning "Call upon Hari！" i.e. Krishna， i.e. Vishnu.

　　By the blessing of his daughter's decease， the old householder beheaded himself.[FN#114] He caused an instrument to be made in the shape of a half-moon with an edge like a razor， and fitting the back of his neck. At both ends of it， as at the beam of a balance， chains were fastened. He sat down with eyes closed； he was rubbed with the purifying clay of the holy river， Vaiturani[FN#115]； and he repeated the proper incantations. Then placing his feet upon the extremities of the chains， he suddenly jerked up his neck， and his severed head rolled from his body upon the ground. What a happy death was this！

　　[FN#114] This form of suicide is one of those recognized in India. So in Europe we read of fanatics who， with a suicidal ingenuity， have succeeded in crucifying themselves.

　　[FN#115] The river of Jaganath in Orissa； it shares the honours of sanctity with some twenty-nine others， and in the lower regions it represents the classical Styx.

　　The Baital was silent， as if meditating on the fortunate transmigration which the old householder had thus secured.

　　"But what could the thief have been laughing at， sire？" asked the young prince Dharma Dhwaj of his father.

　　"At the prodigious folly of the girl， my son，" replied the warrior king， thoughtlessly.