While a royal salute boomed from her yacht’s gun forward I read over her the burial service at sea prescribed by the Church of England. Her own flag was sent to the maintop and the rest of her bunting was astream from stern to bowsprit, over the mastheads. Then, with the small boats forming a cortege alongside, we opened her seacocks, pulled a short distance away, and watched her slowly sink to her grave, tenderly lowered by her own mother, the sea. We had taken our revolvers along for that particular purpose, our protection being a secondary consideration, and as the waves that her broken heart had warmed caressed the topmost flag we fired another salute in her honor, as the final tribute of a love that, long smouldering and not understood, had been fanned into full flame by her burial, and she was gone. I owned many ships after that but never one among them was I so sure of, under all conditions, as I was of her. The ocean whispered to itself of her brave deeds as it closed in over her and we hoisted rags of sails on our three boats and headed for Aden, where we landed late in the afternoon with a carefully prepared story of the sinking of an imaginary ship. Aden was a port of call for ships running out East and we took the next one that came in for England. We reached London early in 1877 where I learned with delight that war between Russia and Turkey was imminent. The first thing I did was to dissolve my partnership with Norton. While I had greatly enjoyed the adventures that were a part of it, I did not relish the business to which he had introduced me. I do not seek to avoid any responsibility for my own acts; I went into the business with my eyes open but it was not exactly the sort of thing I was cut out for, and it left a bad taste in my mouth. Moreover, I preferred to operate alone.