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 enough 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 his 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;