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.

The queen and Mary Seyton were so little expecting this issue, that,
contrary to their custom, they had not put on their men's clothes that
evening. They immediately flew to the queen's bed-chamber, bolted the
door behind them, and began to dress.

They had hardly finished their hurried toilette when they heard a key
turn in the lock: they immediately blew out the lamp. Light steps
approached the door. The two women leaned one against the other; for
they both were near falling. Someone tapped gently. The queen asked who
was there, and Little Douglas's voice answered in the two first lines of
an old ballad--

"Douglas, Douglas, Tender and true."

Mary opened, directly: it was the watchword agreed upon with George
Douglas.

The child was without a light. He stretched out his hand and encountered
the queen's: in the starlight, Mary Stuart saw him kneel