“Once there lived in Florence a poor shoemaker, who went every morning to the Church of San Michele Berteldi—some say it was at San Bartolommeo, and maybe at both, for a good story or a big lie is at home anywhere.
“Well, he used to pray before a John the Baptist in wood, or it may have been cast in plaster, or moulded in wax, which was on the altar. One morning he prayed scalding hot, and the chierico—a boy who waits on the priest, who was a young rascal, like all of his kind—overheard him say: ‘Oh, Saint John, I pray thee make known to me two things. One is whether my wife is good and true to me, and the other what will become of my only son.’
“Then the mass-boy, who had hidden himself behind the altar, replied in a soft, slow, strange voice: ‘Know, my son, that because thou hast long been so devout to me, thou shalt be listened unto. Return hither to-morrow, and thou wilt be answered; and now go in peace.’
“And the shoemaker, having heard this, verily believed that Saint John had spoken to him, and went his way with great
rejoicing. So, bright and early the next morning, he was in the church, and said: ‘Saint John, I await thy reply.’
“Then the mass-boy, who was hidden as before, replied: ‘Oh, my son, I am sorry to say that thy wife is no better than she should be—ha fatto fallo con più d’uno—and everybody in Florence except thee knows it.’
“‘And my son?’ gasped the shoemaker.
“‘He will be hung,’ replied the voice.
“The shoemaker rose and departed abruptly. In the middle of the church he paused, and, without a sign of the cross, and putting on his cap, he cried: ‘What sort of a Saint John are you, anyhow?’
“‘Saint John the Baptist,’ replied the voice.