It chanced that he officiated at the churching of Robert’s wife of Haydock, and after the churching he was asked to the ale, whither many gossips had repaired to celebrate the occasion with plenty that was fit both to eat and to drink. Being, as has been said, no enemy of honest mirth, Simon courteously consented to drink somewhat with them for good fellowship’s sake, and being much importuned remained with the company until late that evening. But after it had grown dark, and the moon was gotten up and most of the guests had well drunken, he took his leave with some haste, saying that he had bethought him of certain devotions he was bound to make that night. About an hour after, three others took their leave also, going the same way to town as the good Simon had gone before them. These three fellows had not gone more than a mile from Haydock, making their way along the road with arms lovingly linked for friendship’s sake, when one of them spied something dark lying by the wayside. They made their way slowly toward it, and, when they had gazed upon it for some time, they recognised Master Simon lying peacefully upon his back as though absorbed in a deep meditation. His face was turned upward towards the bright moon and his feet lay in a great pool of water. They took him by the shoulder and shook him with all the force they might, saying, ‘Rise, Master Parson, or thou wilt perish from wet and cold.’ The good Simon stirred uneasily, opened his eyes slowly, and blinked solemnly at the moonlight. ‘Put some more clothes on my feet,’ quoth he in a full soft and broken voice, ‘and blow out the light and leave me to the contemplation of God.’ Whereat these three men, after much contention and sagacious deliberation, concluding that he was absorbed in divine meditation, left him anon and brought each other home in safety. The same night it came on heavily to rain. Next morning an old woman going to drive pigs, found the holy man dead, exactly as he had been left the night before, his eyes rapt and fixed upon the Heavens as though in the last and greatest of his visions. Then folk called to mind his last words, how he had asked to be left alone to the contemplation of God, and they knew that he had foretold his own death, albeit to dull and uncomprehending ears. Also they called to mind divers others of his prophecies and wonderful works and said one to another, ‘Surely there has been a Saint among us.’ After his interment many sick folk were miraculously healed of their diseases at his tomb. Thus it is that when you go through Roodborough market-place on a fair day, you will hear Blewberry folk swear never by Saint George or Saint Peter or Saint Thomas of Canterbury, but by Saint Simon, and this Saint Simon, as I have told you, is a Blewberry Saint born and bred. The Lie of the Flesh I