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.

He had either seen Beatrice, or he had not.