“They reined in before an ancient beech tree. Its trunk and branches leaned inland, bent by many years of ocean breezes. Half-buried beneath a root that arched out of the ground was a rectangular slab of stone that didn't seem to fit the landscape. Annis pointed to it. "What is that stone doing there?" "It's a menhir," the marquess said. At Annis's puzzled expression, he explained. "One of the standing stones---well, this one has fallen over, but there are several stone circles in Dorset. If there was once a circle here---a henge, it's called---it's gone now. The stones have probably been pressed into other uses, fences or walls. I expect this one was too large to move." "I don't know what a henge is," Annis said. Intrigued, she swung down from her saddle and bent to put her hand on the cool, rough surface of the stone. "Have you touched it? It feels alive!" He laughed and slid down to join her beside the stone. He laid his own hand on it, right beside hers, then shook his head. "It doesn't feel alive to me, I'm afraid. It just feels cold and rough and old. A henge is a stone circle, you know, from ancient times. A ceremonial circle, we think. No one knows exactly what it was for.”