Thick ivy grasps your brick hiding place as iron  

bells tell of blood spilt on cobbled stone.  

You plead with eyes, lips, and hands that just  

this once he might proclaim a name he does 

not know. But his eyes are filled with  

thin acceptance, lips will not release his

answer, hands pull away his saving grace  

while clasping you close. Did you hate  

him then, when he chose Hugues  

over you?  

*A Huguenot on St. Bartholomew’s Day by John Everett Millais