A deafening chorus of wails burst from the waiting women as the young man flung the torch directly by the head of the bier. Next the priests threw more lighted torches alongside the corpse, followed by more oil. The flames licked tentatively around the edges of the wood, then burst across the top of the pyre. The fire swirled around the woman, and in an instant her oil-soaked robes flared, enveloping her body and igniting her hair. Hawksworth saw her open her mouth and say something, words he did not understand, and then the pain overcame her and she screamed and tried frantically to move toward the edge of the pit. As she reached the edge she saw the hovering priests, waiting with long poles to push her away, and she stumbled backward. Her last screams were drowned by the chorus of wailing women as she collapsed across the body of her husband, a human torch. Hawksworth stepped back in horror and whirled on Vasant Rao, who stood watching impassively. "This is murder! Is this more of your Rajput 'tradition"?" "It is what we call _sati_, when a brave woman joins her husband in death. Did you hear what she said? She pronounced the words 'five, two' as the life-spirit left her. At the moment of death we sometimes have the gift of prophecy. She was saying this is the fifth time she has burned herself with the same husband, and that only two times more are required to release her from the cycle of birth and death, to render her a perfect being." "I can't believe she burned herself willingly." "Of course she did. Rajput women are noble. It was the way she honored her husband, and her caste. It was her _dharma_." Hawksworth stared again at the pit. Priests were throwing more oil on the raging flames, which already had enveloped the two bodies and now licked around the edges, almost at Hawksworth's feet. The five women seemed crazed with grief, as they held hands and moved along the edge in a delirious dance. The heat had become intense, and Hawksworth instinctively stepped back as tongues of fire licked over the edge of the pit. The mourning women appeared heedless of their own danger as they continued to circle, their light cloth robes now only inches from the flame. The air was filled with the smell of death and burning flesh. They must be mad with grief. They'll catch their clothes . . . At that instant the hem of one of the women's robes ignited. She examined the whipping flame with a wild, empty gaze, almost as though not seeing it. Then she turned on the other women, terror and confusion in her eyes. Hawksworth was already peeling off his jerkin. He'd seen enough fires on the gun deck to know the man whose clothes caught always panicked. If I can reach her in time I can smother the robe before she's burned and maimed. Her legs . . .