Who can describe the joy of Squire John thereat? What he had hitherto only ventured to hope, to imagine, his hardiest, most ardent desire was gratified: his wife had a son! A son who would be his heir and perpetuate his name! who was born in happier times, who would make good the faults of his father, and by means of his youthful virtues fulfil the obligations which the Kárpáthy family owed to its country and to humanity.
If only he might live long enough to hear the child speak, to read a meaning in his sweet babblings, to speak words to him that he might understand and never forget, so that in the days to come, when he was the fêted hero of all great and noble ideas, he might say, "I first heard of these things from that good old fellow, John Kárpáthy."
What should be the child's name? It should be the name of one of those princes who drank out of the same wine-cup with the primal ancestor of the House of Kárpáthy on the fair plains of Hunnia. It should be Zoltán—Zoltán Kárpáthy—how beautifully that would sound!
Presently they brought to him this new citizen of the world, and he held him in his arms and kissed and embraced him. He could scarce see him for the tears of joy that streamed from his eyes, and yet how greatly he longed to see him! With twinkling eyes he regarded the child, and a fine, vigorous little lad it was, like a little rosy-cheeked angel; his little hands and neck were regularly wrinkled everywhere from very plumpness, his mouth was hardly larger than a strawberry, but his sparkling eyes, than which no precious stone was ever of a purer azure, were all the larger by contrast, and whenever he drooped them the long lashes lay conspicuous on his chubby cheeks. He did not cry, he was quite serious, just as if he knew that it would be a great shame to be weak now, and when Squire John, in his rapture, raised him to a level with his lips and kissed his little red face again and again with his stiff, bristly moustache, he began to smile and utter a merry little gurgle, which those who were standing round Squire John were quite positive was an attempt to speak.
"Talk away, my darling little soul," stammered Squire John, perceiving that the child was screwing up his little round lips all sorts of ways, as if he knew very well what he wanted to say but could not find the right words, "talk away, talk away! Don't be afraid, we understand you. Say it again."
But the doctor and the nurses thought well to interpret the little suckling's discourse as a desire to go back to his mother. Enough of caresses then, for the present, they said, and, taking him out of Squire John's arms, they brought him back to his mother, whereupon the good gentleman could not but steal softly into the adjoining room and listen whether the child was crying, and every time anybody came out he would ask what was going on
or what had happened since, and every time anybody went in he sent a message along with him.
Towards the afternoon the doctor emerged again, and asked him to retire with him to another room.
"Why? I prefer being here; at least I can hear what they are talking about."