I

More than a year had passed since Giovanni Boltraffio had been received as a novice in the Convent of San Marco.

On a winter's day towards the close of the carnival of 1496, shortly after noon, Fra Girolamo was writing the account of a vision which had lately appeared to him. He had seen two crosses waving above the city of Rome, one black and enveloped in storm, inscribed—'The Cross of the fury of the Lord'; the other of gleaming azure, with the inscription—'The Cross of the Lord's mercy.'

February sunshine flooded the narrow cell with its white and naked walls, great black crucifix, and the thick parchment books in antique leather. Now and then from the blue sky came the joyous twitter of the swallows.

Fra Girolamo felt unwonted weariness, and now and then trembled. Laying down his pen, he dropped his head on his hands, closed his eyes, and meditated upon what he had that morning heard about Pope Alexander VI. from Fra Paolo, a monk who had been on a secret mission to Rome. Monstrous images like those described in the Apocalypse passed and whirled before the mind of the prior; he saw the blood-stained bull of the shield of the Borgias, reminding him of Apis, the heathen god; the golden calf borne before the pontiff instead of the humble Lamb of God; nightly orgies at the Vatican in the presence of the Holy Father, of his favourite daughter, and of the College of Cardinals; the beautiful Giulia Farnese, mistress of the sexagenarian pope, and the model for contemporary portraits of the saints; his two sons, Cesare the young Cardinal of Valenza, and Giovanni the Duke of Candia, who out of criminal love for Lucrezia their sister, hated each other to the point of fratricide. And haunted by what Fra Paolo had scarcely dared to whisper, the tale of the strange relations between the pope and this Lucrezia his daughter, Girolamo trembled.

'But no, 'tis calumny. It were too great an enormity! God sees that I cannot believe it,' he murmured.

But in the depths of his soul he felt that nothing was impossible in that terrible nest of the Borgias, and drops of cold sweat stood out upon his forehead. He had fallen on his knees before the crucifix, when a low knocking was heard at the door of his cell.

'Who is it?'

'It is I, father.'

He recognized the voice of his trusty friend, Fra Domenico Buonvicino.

'Ricciardo Becchi, secret legate from the pope, prays for an audience.'

'Good. Let him wait. Meanwhile send me Fra Silvestro.'

Fra Silvestro Maruffi was epileptic and of weak intellect, but Fra Girolamo, considering him a chosen vessel of the grace of God, both loved and feared him. He interpreted Maruffi's visions according to the precise rules of St. Thomas Aquinas and the Schoolmen, finding by ingenuity, by the arguments of logic, by enthymemes, apophthegms, and syllogisms, prophetical meaning in the vain babble of an idiot. Maruffi showed no respect for his superior, insulted him publicly, and even struck him; offences which Fra Girolamo received with the utmost meekness. So that if the people of Florence were in the hands of Savonarola, Savonarola was in the hands of the half-witted Maruffi.

Having entered, Fra Silvestro sat on the floor and scratched furiously at his red and naked feet, chanting a monotonous song. His face was freckled, with a sharp nose, and a hanging lower lip. His rheumy eyes of a dull green were melancholy.

'Brother,' said Savonarola, 'the pope has sent me a secret messenger. Tell me, shall I receive him? What should I say? Have you had any voice or vision?'

Maruffi grimaced, barked and grunted. He had great gifts in the imitation of animals.

'Beloved Brother,' said Savonarola, 'be kind! Speak! My soul faints under the burden of mortal sadness. Pray God that He illuminate thee with His spirit of prophecy.'

The other opened wide his mouth and rolled his tongue; his face was strangely contorted; and he burst out angrily:

'Why should you trouble me, you tedious talker, you sheep's-head, you brainless quail? May the rats devour your nose! You have made your bed—lie on it. I am neither prophet nor councillor.'

He paused, looked at Savonarola from under his scowling eyebrows, and continued more quietly:—

'Brother, I'm sorry for you! But as for my visions, how know you if they come from God or from the devil?'

Silvestro closed his eyes. His countenance took an expression of repose. Savonarola held his breath in holy expectancy.

Suddenly Maruffi opened his eyes, slowly turned his head like one listening, looked out of the window, and a smile of good nature, peace, almost of intelligence, brightened his face.

'The birds!' he said; 'do you hear the birds? To be sure, the grass is springing in the meadows, and the first little yellow flowers! 'Tis enough. It's time to think of God now. Come! let us flee this sinful world; let us flee together to the desert!' And rocking himself, he began to sing in a sweet, lazy voice.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet, ran to Savonarola, seized his hand and cried, choking with excitement:—

'I have seen—I have seen—May the rats devour your nose! You head of an ass—I have seen——'

'Speak, dear brother; speak quickly!'

'Flames! Flames!' cried Maruffi.

'Well? And besides?'

'Flames rising from a stake, and in the midst of the flames a man——'

'Who?'

Nodding his head, and motioning with his hand, Silvestro did not reply at once; then fixing his penetrating eyes on the other, he laughed softly and foolishly, and murmured:—

'Thou!'

Fra Girolamo shuddered, paled, and drew back involuntarily. Maruffi turned away, and shambled out of the cell, singing:—

'Hie we to the smiling woods,

The shy retreat of spring,

Where the streams unsealèd flow,

And the yellow-hammers sing!'

Recovering himself, Fra Girolamo gave orders to admit His Magnificence Ricciardo Becchi.