So. My ancestor, The first De Herancour, esteemed by far This piece most precious, most desirable; Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked well In the dark paneling above the old Hearth of his room. The head's religious gold, The soft severity of the nun face, Made of the room an apostolic place Revered and feared.-- Like some lived scene I see That gothic room; its Flemish tapestry: Embossed within the marble hearth a shield, Wreathed round with thistles; in its argent field Three sable mallets--arms of Herancour-- Carved with the crest, a helm and hands that bore, Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,-- Between two casements, lozenge-paned, embayed,-- A vellum volume of black-lettered text. Near by a taper, blinking as if vexed With silken gusts a nervous curtain sends, Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends. And then I seem to see again the hall, The stairway leading to that room.--Then all The terror of that night of blood and crime Passes before me.--It is Catherine's time: 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; Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hair Of finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,-- Looking exalted visitation,--leaned From its black panel; in its eyes a hate Demonic; hair--a glowing auburn, late A dull, enduring golden. "Just one thread Of the fierce hair around his throat," they said, "Twisting a burning ray, he--staring dead." BEHRAM AND EDDETMA