As to his chastity, there was little doubt, and 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 of his former companions grew a-weary; one by one they 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 dry 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 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.