Not only has the sleeping Pope, in the right hand lower fresco, his head laid uncomfortably on his pillow, but all the clothes on him are in awkward angles, even Giotto’s instinct for lines of drapery failing him altogether when he has to lay it on a reposing figure.  But look at the folds of the Soldan’s robe over his knees.  None could be more beautiful or right; and it is to me wholly inconceivable that the two paintings should be within even twenty years of each other in date—­the skill in the upper one is so supremely greater.  We shall find, however, more than mere truth in its casts of drapery, if we examine them.

They are so simply right, in the figure of the Soldan, that we do not think of them;—­we see him only, not his dress.  But we see dress first, in the figures of the discomfited Magi.  Very fully draped personages these, indeed,—­with trains, it appears four yards long, and bearers of them.

The one nearest the Soldan has done his devoir as bravely as he could; would fain go up to the fire, but cannot; is forced to shield his face, though he has not turned back.  Giotto gives him full sweeping breadth of fold; what dignity he can;—­a man faithful to his profession, at all events.

The next one has no such courage.  Collapsed altogether, he has nothing more to say for himself or his creed.  Giotto hangs the cloak upon him in Ghirlandajo’s fashion, as from a peg, but with ludicrous narrowness of fold.  Literally, he is a “shut-up” Magus—­closed like a fan.  He turns his head away, hopelessly.  And the last Magus shows nothing but his back, disappearing through the door.

Opposed to them, in a modern work, you would have had a St. Francis standing as high as he could in his sandals, contemptuous, denunciatory; magnificently showing the Magi the door.  No such thing, says Giotto.  A somewhat mean man; disappointing even in presence—­even in feature; I do not understand his gesture, pointing to his forehead—­perhaps meaning, “my life, or my head, upon the truth of this.”  The attendant monk behind him is terror-struck; but will follow his master.  The dark Moorish servants of the Magi show no emotion—­will arrange their masters’ trains as usual, and decorously sustain their retreat.

Lastly, for the Soldan himself.  In a modern work, you would assuredly have had him staring at St. Francis with his eyebrows up, or frowning thunderously at the Magi, with them bent as far down as they would go.  Neither of these aspects does he bear according to Giotto.  A perfect gentleman and king, he looks on his Magi with quiet eyes of decision; he is much the noblest person in the room—­though an infidel, the true hero of the scene, far more so than St. Francis.  It is evidently the Soldan whom Giotto wants you to think of mainly, in this picture of Christian missionary work.