He would not
yield and he could not advance. His heart was filled with forebodings
which his wisdom bade him treat with indifference, while his passion
gave them new weight and new horror with every minute that passed.
He had seen with his eyes and heard with his ears. Beatrice had been
before him, and her voice had reached him among the voices of thousands,
but now, since the hours has passed and he had not found her, it was as
though he had been near her in a dream, and the strong certainty took
hold of him that she was dead and that he had looked upon her wraith in
the shadowy church.
He was a strong man, not accustomed to distrust his senses, and his
reason opposed itself instantly to the suggestion of the supernatural.
He had many times, on entering a new city, felt himself suddenly elated
by the irresistible belief that his search was at an end, and that
within a few hours he must inevitably find her whom he had sought so
long. Often as he passed through the gates of some vast burying-place,
he had almost hesitated to walk through the silent ways, feeling all at
once convinced that upon the very first headstone he was about to
see the name that was ever in his heart. But the expectation of
final defeat, like the anticipation of final success, had been always
deceived. Neither living nor dead had he found her.
Two common, reasonable possibilities lay before him, and two only.
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