And as I faced him, with levelled gun shaking in my hands, I had time to note the worn and haggard appearance of his face.

It was as if some strong anxiety had wasted it.
The cheeks were sunken, and there was a wearied, puckered expression on the brow.

And it seemed to me that his eyes were strange, not only the expression, but the physical seeming, as though the optic nerves and supporting muscles had suffered strain and slightly twisted the eyeballs.
All this I saw, and my brain now working rapidly, I thought a thousand thoughts; and yet I could not pull the triggers.

I lowered the gun and stepped to the corner of the cabin, primarily to relieve the tension on my nerves and to make a new start, and incidentally to be closer.

Again I raised the gun.