Carpaccio, it will be quickly seen, disregards certain details of this version.  For example, he makes Ursula’s father a King of the Moors, although there is nothing Moorish about either that monarch, his daughter, or his city.  The first picture, which has the best light in it, shows the ambassadors from England craving the hand of the princess.  At the back is one of those octagonal buildings so dear to this painter, also in the city.  His affection for dogs, always noticeable, is to be seen here again, for he has placed three hounds on the quay.  A clock somewhat like that of the Merceria is on the little tower.  The English ship has a red flag.  On the right is the King pondering with Ursula over his reply.  In the next picture, No. 573, the ambassadors receive this reply.  In the next the ambassadors depart, with the condition that a term of three years must first pass.  They return to a strangely unfamiliar England:  an England in which Carpaccio himself must have been living for some time in the role of architect.  This—­No. 574—­is a delightful and richly mellow scene of activity, and not the least attractive feature of it is the little fiddling boy on the left.  Carpaccio has so enjoyed the pageantry and detail, even to frescoes on the house, crowded bridges, and so forth, that his duty as a story-teller has suffered.  In the next picture, No. 575, which is really two, divided by the flagstaff, we have on the left the departure of the English prince from an English seaport (of a kind which alas! has disappeared for ever) to join in his lady-love’s pilgrimage to Rome.  He bids his father farewell.  Nothing could be more fascinating than the mountain town and its battlements, and every inch of the picture is amusing and alive.  Crowds of gay people assemble and a ship has run on the rocks.  On the right, the prince meets Ursula, who also has found a very delectable embarking place.  Here are more gay crowds and sumptuous dresses, of which the King’s flowered robe is not the least.  Farther still to the right the young couple kneel before the monarch.  I reproduce this.

The apotheosis of S. Ursula, No. 576, is here interposed, very inappropriately, for she is not yet dead or a saint, merely a pious princess.

The story is then resumed—­in No. 577—­with a scene at Rome, as we know it to be by the castle of S. Angelo, in which Ursula and her prince are being blessed by the Pope Cyriacus, while an unending file of virgins extends into the distance.

In the next picture, reproduced opposite page 120, Ursula, in her nice great bed, in what is perhaps the best-known bedroom in the world, dreams of her martyrdom and sees an angel bringing her the rewards of fortitude.  The picture has pretty thoughts but poor colour.  Where the room is meant to be, I am not sure; but it is a very charming one.  Note her little library of big books, her writing desk and hour-glass, her pen and ink.  Carpaccio of course gives her a dog.  Her slippers are beside the bed and her little feet make a tiny hillock in the bedclothes:  Carpaccio was the man to think of that!  The windows are open and she has no mosquito net.  Her princess’s crown is at the foot of the bed, or is it perchance her crown of glory?