The glare of their black eyes was like those of Eastern eaters of hasheesh or opium, and they bounded to and fro as if their muscles were springs of steel.
They sang: We have met the Bostonians [*] in battle, We slew them with our rifles and tomahawks.
Few there are who escaped our warriors.
Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.
[* Note: All the Americans were often called Bostonians by the Indians as late as the Revolutionary War.] Mighty has been our taking of scalps, They will fill all the lodges of the Iroquois.
We have burned the houses of the Bostonians.
Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.
The wolf will prowl in their corn-fields, The grass will grow where their blood has soaked; Their bones will lie for the buzzard to pick.
Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.
We came upon them by river and forest; As we smote Wyoming we will smite the others, We will drive the Bostonians back to the sea.
Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.
The monotonous chant with the refrain, "Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee," went on for many verses.

Meanwhile the old squaws never ceased to feed the bonfire, and the flames roared, casting a deeper and more vivid light over the distorted faces of the dancers and those of the chiefs, who sat gravely beyond.
Higher and higher leaped the warriors.

They seemed unconscious of fatigue, and the glare in their eyes became that of maniacs.

Their whole souls were possessed by the orgy.

Beads of sweat, not of exhaustion, but of emotional excitement, appeared upon their faces and naked bodies, and the red and black paint streaked together horribly.
For a long time this went on, and then the warriors ceased suddenly to sing, although they continued their dance.