The house, De Herancour's: on floors, splashed red,
Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed:
Down carven corridors and rooms,—where couch
And chairs lie shattered and the shadows crouch,
Torch-pierced, with fear,—a sound of swords draws near,
The stir of searching steel.
What find they here
On St. Bartholomew's?—A Huguenot
Dead in his chair! Eyes violently shot
With horror, fastened on a portrait there;