sandstorms raged and blew, when the people below almost lost sight of
the man on the column. Some prophesied he would be blown off, but the
morning light revealed his form, naked from the waist up, standing
with hands outstretched to greet the rising sun.

Once each day, as darkness gathered, a monk came with a basket
containing a bottle of goat’s milk and a little loaf of black bread,
and Simeon dropped down a rope and drew up the basket.

Simeon never spoke, for words are folly, and to the calls of saint or
sinner he made no reply. He lived in a perpetual attitude of
adoration.

Did he suffer? During those first weeks he must have suffered terribly
and horribly. There was no respite nor rest from the hard surface of
the rock, and aching muscles could find no change from the cramped and
perilous position. If he fell, it was damnation for his soul—all were
agreed as to this.

But man’s body and mind accommodate themselves to almost any
condition. One thing at least, Simeon was free from economic
responsibilities, free from social cares and intrusion. Bores with sad
stories of unappreciated lives and fond hopes unrealized, never broke
in upon his peace. He was not pressed for time. No frivolous dame of
tarnished fame sought to share with him his perilous perch. The people
on a slow schedule, ten minutes late, never irritated his temper. His
correspondence never got in a heap.

Simeon kept no track of the days, having no engagements to meet, nor
offices to perform, beyond the prayers at morn, midday and night.