But Kullervo can not go far; his remorse takes him by the throat.
"Kullervo, son of Kalervo, took his faithful dog, and directed his steps toward the wild forest, toward the dark wilderness.

But when he had gone only a little way he found himself at the very place where he had outraged the young girl, where he had dishonoured the child of his mother.

And all things there mourned for her--all things; the soft grass and the tender foliage, and the little plants, and the sorrowful briars.

The grass was no longer green, the briars no longer blossomed, the leaves and the plants hung withered and dry about the spot where the virgin had been dishonoured, where the brother had dishonoured his sister.
"Kullervo drew forth his sword, his sharpedged sword; a long time he looked at it, turning it in his hand, and asking it whether it would feel no pleasure in eating the flesh of the man thus loaded with infamy, in drinking the blood of the man thus covered with crime.
"And the sword knew the heart of the man: it understood the question of the hero.

And it made answer to him saying: 'Why indeed should I not gladly devour the flesh of the man who is loaded with infamy?
Why indeed should I not drink with pleasure the blood of the man who is burdened with crime?
For well I devoured even the flesh of the innocent man, well can I drink even the blood of the man who is free from crime.' "Then Kullervo fixed his sword in the earth, with the handle downwards and the point upwards, and he threw himself upon the point, and the point passed through all the depth of his breast.
"This was the end of all, this was the cruel destiny of Kullervo, the irrevocable end of the son of the heroes--the death of the 'Man of Misfortune.'" You can see how very much unlike other Western poetry this poetry is.