Leonore looked at Hildegarde admiringly.
'Yes,' she said, 'I'm sure that's the best thing to do; anyway, we can try. But, Hildegarde, the key is so small.'
Hildegarde examined it closely; suddenly Leonore heard a tiny click.
'It is not so very small now,' said Hildegarde; 'see, it pulls out,' and so it did. It was now a long-stemmed, very delicately-made key, small still in the actual words, but quite easy to hold firmly.
Hildegarde moved a few paces to one side.
'I think we are about even with the centre of the Castle here,' she said, stopping short. 'Now, it is for you to look for the door, while I stand here holding the thread, for my rhyme says, "thy comrade," I shall stand quite still, and you walk on as straight as you can go.'
'I am so afraid of the thread breaking,' said Leonore, taking it and the key from Hildegarde.
'I don't think there is any fear of that, if you handle it gently,' said Hildegarde. 'Remember, it must be some kind of a fairy thread.'
Leonore set off, her heart beating with excitement. As she went on she felt the thread sliding gently through her fingers, so she allowed her hold of it to slacken, while she grasped the tiny key more firmly. It seemed to her that she had walked a good way, and she was marvelling at the length of the thread, when she felt it tighten, and, slender as a hair though it was, pull her up with a little jerk. She stopped at once—yes, it was at its full stretch now, and she looked around her eagerly.