The two prisoners were astounded at the boldness of this plan:  at first they looked at one another in consternation, for success seemed impossible.  They none the less made trial of their disguise:  as George had said, it fitted each of them as if they had been measured for it.

Every evening the queen questioned the light, as George had urged, and that for a whole long month, during which each evening the queen and Mary Seyton, although the light gave no fresh tidings, arrayed themselves in their men’s clothes, as had been arranged, so that they both acquired such practice that they became as familiar to them as those of their own sex.

At last, the 2nd May, 1568, the queen was awakened by the blowing of a horn:  uneasy as to what it announced, she slipped on a cloak and ran to the window, where Mary Seyton joined her directly.  A rather numerous band of horsemen had halted on the side of the lake, displaying the Douglas pennon, and three boats were rowing together and vying with each other to fetch the new arrivals.

This event caused the queen dismay:  in her situation the least change in the castle routine was to be feared, for it might upset all the concerted plans.  This apprehension redoubled when, on the boats drawing near, the queen recognised in the elder Lord Douglas, the husband of Lady Lochleven, and the father of William and George.  The venerable knight, who was Keeper of the Marches in the north, was coming to visit his ancient manor, in which he had not set foot for three years.

It was an event for Lochleven; and, some minutes after the arrival of the boats, Mary Stuart heard the old steward’s footsteps mounting the stairs:  he came to announce his master’s arrival to the queen, and, as it must needs be a time of rejoicing to all the castle inhabitants when its master returned, he came to invite the queen to the dinner in celebration of the event:  whether instinctively or from distaste, the queen declined.

All day long the bell and the bugle resounded:  Lord Douglas, like a true feudal lord, travelled with the retinue of a prince.  One saw nothing but new soldiers and servants passing and repassing beneath the queen’s windows:  the footmen and horsemen were wearing, moreover, a livery similar to that which the queen and Mary Seyton had received.

Mary awaited the night with impatience.  The day before, she had questioned her light, and it had informed her as usual, in reappearing at her eleventh or twelfth heart-beat, that the moment of escape was near; but she greatly feared that Lord Douglas’s arrival might have upset everything, and that this evening’s signal could only announce a postponement.  But hardly had she seen the light shine than she placed her lamp in the window; the other disappeared directly, and Mary Stuart, with terrible anxiety, began to question it.  This anxiety increased when she had counted more than fifteen beats.  Then she stopped, cast down, her eyes mechanically fixed on the spot where the light had been.  But her astonishment was great when, at the end of a few minutes, she did not see it reappear, and when, half an hour having elapsed, everything remained in darkness.  The queen then renewed her signal, but obtained no response:  the escape was for the same evening.