All over England there are standing stones, petrified forms of men who hoped to rule: Stick stock stone, As King of England I be known. For their presumption they are condemned to stand for a thousand years, two thousand, in wind and rain; around them are smaller stones, the forms of the wretches who were their knights. Count them and—by a peculiar enchantment—you never get the same number twice. The destruction goes beyond counting. It goes beyond what the pen can record.
