'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?'