Memory died in him, the hurts became callouses, the world-pain died out of his heart, and to cling became a habit.

Language was lost in disuse.

The food he ate was minimum in quantity; sensation ceased, and the dry, hot winds reduced bodily tissue to a dessicated something called a saint—­loved, feared and reverenced for his fortitude.

This pillar, which had once graced the portal of a pagan temple, again became a place of pious pilgrimage, and people flocked to Simeon’s rock, so that they might be near when he stretched out his black, bony hands to the East, and the spirit of Almighty God, for a space, hovered close around.

So much attention did the abnegation of Simeon attract that various other pillars, marking the ruins of art and greatness gone, in that vicinity, were crowned with pious monks.  The thought of these monks was to show how Christianity had triumphed over heathenism.  Imitators were numerous.  About then the Bishops in assembly asked, “Is Simeon sincere?” To test the matter of Simeon’s pride, he was ordered to come down from his retreat.

As to his chastity, there was little doubt, his poverty was beyond question, but how about obedience to his superiors?

The order was shouted up to him in a Bishop’s voice—­he must let down his rope, draw up a ladder, and descend.

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.

All day he sat there, motionless.

The people watched in whispered silence.  Would he arise at sundown and pray, and with outstretched hands bless the assembled pilgrims?

And as they watched, a vulture came sailing slowly through the blue ether, and circled nearer and nearer; and off on the horizon was another—­and still another, circling nearer and ever nearer.