The tram hurtled its way along the crowded Christmas streets towards Stare Mesto. At a particularly acute bend, something caught the eye of the Westerner, and he seized the emergency brake handle. The tram lurched to a standstill, and he leapt off into the crowds, followed by the four (or was it now six?) remaining members of the Cabal. An astonished crowd melted fearfully before them, as the Westerner pointed towards a distant vagrant on a street corner. Turning to the Eastern Monk, who had shed his cloak and hat, and was now revealed arrayed in doublet and hose, with shoes which tapered to a point and curled back over on themselves, he boomed:

“Hither, page, and stand by me! If thou knowst its telling - yonder peasant, who is he? Where, and what his dwelling?”

“Sire!” replied the Eastern Monk/page, “He lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain; right beside the village fence, by St Agnes’ fountain.”

“Bring me flesh and bring me wine!” commanded the Westerner to his courtly retinue, “Bring me pine logs hither! Thou and I shall see him dine, when we bear them thither.”

Thus imperiously speaking, the Westerner set off towards his object at a ferocious pace, followed by the four (six?) members of the Cabal, cloaks flapping and medieval costumes a decorative source of interest to tourists and local shoppers alike in the Christmas markets.

Page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together, through the cold wind’s wild lament and the bitter weather. The Eastern Monk could scarcely keep up with the astonishing pace the Westerner had set. “Sire, the night is darker now,” he complained, “and the wind blows stronger. Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer.”

“Mark my footsteps, my good page, tread now in them boldly,” said the Westerner; “You shall find the winter’s rage freeze your blood less coldly.”

In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted. Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.

“O.K. cut, cut!” yelled the film director, panting after the pair who were rapidly disappearing into the distance, hotly pursued by TV studio video camera operatives and sound technicians, trailing audio leads and lugging metal cases and flight-boxes. A pair of traffic policemen were also making their way purposefully towards them, having rounded up the remaining members of the Cabal.

“I think that will do,” he continued. “Someone cut along after them and tell them that’s the final retake. It’s too late to do any more. We’ll complete the remixing tomorrow morning. Tell everyone they can take a break and get back to the hotel. The rest of the evening is free.”

He turned to a couple of assistants who stood by his side with clip-boards. The technicians started rolling up lengths of cable and packing them into the cases.

From a lamp-post at the intersection, a tannoy blared out into the throng a crackling rendition of ‘Silent night’. All was as it should be.