At a sign for the dance, the great sachem, Pisquagon, stepped out into an open space on the lawn and began to shake his shell rattles and let out some vocal gyrations. The young men and women applauded by screeching and clapping of hands. The whole concourse gathered around Pisquagon and in unison joined in his chant: “Yo! ho! ha! ha!-- “Yo! ho! ha! ha!-- “Yo! ho! ha! ha!-- “Yo! ho! ha! ha!” And to the rhythm made by the shell rattles, one warrior with feathered war-cap waving above him, shoulders and limbs bare, lets out a whoop and starts over the green by jerking his two feet together over the ground. Presently another, “dressed in Georgia fashion,”--little else on than a collar and a pair of spurs,--starts off sideways, moving his feet over the ground by jerks, in unison with the shell rattles. Suddenly he faces the other performer and the two proceed in unison, one forward and the other backward, following the same direction around in a circle. As if by magic, yells come from the others, and pairs join the moving circle in manner like the first two. The circle is completed. The noisy stamping of their feet and the shrieks of enthusiasm are startling. At certain cadences in the chant, each one faces about and continues the moving circle in the same direction as before, dancing and contorting with renewed spirit and energy. The dusky throng performs all manner of grotesque movements. Every conceivable posture of the human frame is kept up while moving to the beats and rhythm of the shells. The men were dancing alone, but a young squaw, desiring to join, presents herself at the side of the one whom she wishes to favor, and quietly dances in the circle. There was no cessation of the spirit of the dance till sheer exhaustion stopped it. Some sort of superstitious frenzy seemed to possess their souls. To the whites the most amusing part of it all was to observe the solemn and serious faces of those who were in the performance of the most grotesque antics. Not a smile softened their somber mien. A well-contested foot-race for a necklace of beads was run between the Indian girls to conclude the festivities, and when the setting sun had drawn near, James Greydon’s Indian friends had withdrawn so silently and without ceremony, that he remarked to his guests when he looked around to find them: “The earth must have swallowed them up.” CHAPTER XVI “Segwuna, Segwuna, here are the berries,” sang out the sweet voice of Mollie Greydon, on a balmy June day, as two girls were seeking wild strawberries on the banks of the Wingohocking. The year was 1776, and the day was one of lasting memory at Dorminghurst. Dr. Greydon had invited Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson to Dorminghurst to spend a Sunday during the deliberations of the Continental Congress. The change and rest in the country would give these earnest workers the time in which to ponder over their labors and to consult as to measures that Congress ought to adopt.