"One night, we had been singing together at her house, and it was later than usual when I cantered home.
"About four months had elapsed previous to my landing in Corfu, and I had been eight months there; although at the time, I paid little attention to these circumstances.
"My road lay through an olive grove. I had arrived in its centre, where a small knoll stretched away on my right; on whose summit, was a white Greek monastery, backed by some dark cypress trees.
"The moon was shining brightly--dancing on the silver side of the olive trees--and illuminating the green sward.
"This was smooth and verdant.
"My spirits were more than usually buoyant, when suddenly my pony stopped.
"I could not conceive the reason.
"I looked before me. Immediately in front of me, was the shattered trunk of an old olive tree--it had been blasted by lightning--and sitting quietly at its foot--I saw my own mother, Giorgio! as clearly as I see you now. I could not be mistaken. She wore the same embroidered vest and Albanian shawl, as when I had last seen her.
"She conversed with me calmly for many minutes, and--which surprised me much at the time--I felt no dread, and asked her and answered many questions.
"She told me I should die early, in a foreign land; and many--many more things, which I dare not repeat; for I cannot contemplate the possibility of their being true.