rs, and he lived
there like a royal prince. Each picture painted by Gentile was thought
more wonderful than the last. He painted a portrait of the Sultan, and
even one of himself, which was considered little short of magic.

Thus a whole year passed by, and Gentile had a most delightful time and
was well contented, until one day something happened which disturbed
his peace.

He had painted a picture of the dancing daughter of Herodias, with the
head of John the Baptist in her hand, and when it was finished he
brought it and presented it to the Sultan.

As usual, the Sultan was charmed with the new picture; but he paused in
his praises of its beauty, and looked thoughtfully at the head of St.
John, and then frowned.

'It seems to me,' he said, 'that there is something not quite right
about that head. I do not think a head which had just been cut off
would look exactly as that does in your picture.'

Gentile answered courteously that he did not wish to contradict his
royal highness, but it seemed to him that the head was right.

'We shall see,' said the Sultan calmly, and he turned carelessly to a
guard who stood close by and bade him cut of the head of one of the
slaves, that Bellini might see if his picture was really correctly
painted.

This was more than Gentile could stand.

'Who knows,' he said to himself, 'that the Sultan may not wish to see
next how my head would look cut off from my body!'

So while his precious head was still safe upon his shoulders he thought
it wiser to slip quietly away and return to Venice by the very first
ship he could find.

Meanwhile Giovanni had worked steadily on, and had far surpassed both
his father and his brother. Indeed, he had become the greatest painter
in Venice, the first of that wonderful Venetian school which learned to
paint such marvellous colour.

With all the wealth of delicate shading spread out before his eyes,
with the ever-changing wonder of the opal-tinted sea meeting him on
every side, it was not strange that the love of colour sank into his
very heart. In his pictures we can see the golden glow which bathes the
marble palaces, the clear green of the water, the pure blues and
burning crimsons all as transparent as crystal, not mere paint but
living colour.

Giovanni did not care to paint stories of Venice, with great crowds of
figures, as Gentile did. He loved best the Madonna and saints, single
figures full of quiet dignity. His saints are more hum