Of course he goes to the fair, and on his way home happens to hear the three singing leaves, ‘which moved to and fro, and as they swayed there came forth a sound such as it would be impossible to describe.’ The king was glad to have found what his daughter had wished for, and was about to pluck them, but the instant he stretched forth his hand towards them, they withdrew from his grasp, and a powerful voice was heard from under the earth saying, ‘Touch not my leaves.’ ‘At this the king was somewhat surprised, and asked who it was, and whether he could not purchase the leaves for gold or good words. The voice answered, “I am _Prince Hatt under the Earth_, and you will not get my leaves either with good or bad as you desire. Nevertheless I will propose to you one condition.” “What condition is that?” asked the king with eagerness. “It is,” answered the voice, “that you promise me the first living thing that you meet when you return to your palace.”’ As we anticipate, the first thing which he meets is his youngest daughter, who therefore is left with lamentation under the hazel bush: and, as is its wont on such occasions, the ground opens, and she finds herself in a beautiful palace. Here she lives long and happily with Prince Hatt, upon condition that she shall never see him. But at last she is permitted to pay a visit to her father and sisters; and her stepmother succeeds in awakening her curiosity and her fears, lest she should really be married to some horrid monster. The princess thus allows herself to be persuaded to strike a light and gaze on her husband while he is asleep. Of course, just as her eyes have lighted upon a beautiful youth he awakes, and as a consequence of her disobedience--(here the story alters somewhat)--he is struck blind, and the two are obliged to wander over the earth, and endure all manner of misfortunes before Prince Hatt’s sight is at last restored.
The sun is so apt to take the place of an almost super-human hero, that most of the stories of such when they are purely mythical relate some part of the sun’s daily course and labours. Thus in the Greek, Perseus, Theseus, Jason, are in the main sun-heroes, though they mingle with their histories tales of real human adventure. One of the most easily traceable sun-stories is that of Perseus and the Gorgon. The later representations of Medusa in Greek art give her a beautiful dead face shrouded by luxurious snaky tresses; but the earlier art presents us with a round face, distorted by a hideous grin from ear to ear, broad cheeks, low forehead, over which curl a few flattened locks. We at once see the likeness of this face to the full moon; a likeness which, without regard to mythology, forces itself upon us; and then the true story of Perseus flashes upon us as the extinction of the moon by the sun’s light. This is the baneful Gorgon’s head, the full moon, which so many nations superstitiously believed could exert a fatal power over the sleeper; and when slain by the son of Danaê, it is the pale ghostlike disc which we see by day. It is very interesting to see how the Greeks made a myth of the moon in its--one may say--literal unidealized aspect, in addition to the countless more poetical myths which spoke of the moon as a beautiful goddess, queen of the night, the virgin huntress surrounded by her pack of dogs--the stars. In the instance of Medusa these two aspects of one natural appearance are brought into close relationship, for Athênê--who is sometimes a moon-goddess--wears the Gorgon’s head upon her shield.