Straightway Simeon made preparation to obey. And then the Bishops
relented and cried, “We have changed our minds, and now order you to
remain!”

Simeon lifted his hands in adoration and thankfulness and renewed his
lease.

And so he lived on and on and on—he lived on the top of that pillar,
never once descending for thirty years.

All his former companions grew aweary, and one by one died, and the
monastery bells tolled their requiem as they were laid to rest. Did
Simeon hear the bells and say, “Soon it will be my turn”?

Probably not. His senses had flown, for what good were they! The young
monk who now at eventide brought the basket with the bottle of goat’s
milk and the loaf of brown bread was born since Simeon had taken his
place on the pillar.

“He has always been there,” the people said, and crossed themselves
hurriedly.

But one evening when the young monk came with his basket, no line was
dropped down from above. He waited and then called aloud, but all in
vain.

When sunrise came, there sat the monk, his face between his knees, the
folds of his black robe drawn over his head. But he did not rise and
lift his hands in prayer.