He did not think of the law, or of death, or of freedom.

It was the unfairness of the thing that filled his soul with the blackness of one last terrible desire for vengeance.

Cassidy's gun, leveled at his breast, meant nothing.

A thousand guns leveled at his breast would have meant nothing.

A choking sound came from his lips, and like a shot his right hand went to his revolver holster.
In that last second or two Cassidy had foreseen the impending thing, and with the movement of the other's hand he cried out: "Stop! For God's sake stop--or I shall fire!" Even into the soul of Peter there came in that moment the electrical thrill of something terrific about to happen, of impending death, of tragedy close at hand.