The two of them had fought for the space of an hour when the tiger's claws slackened and its loins grew slack, and the Guardian, raising his trident, ran it straight through its breast and felled it. Alas for the beast — the steel prongs pierced clean through its heart and liver, and in an instant its blood ran out and covered the ground. He seized it by the ears and dragged it up onto the path. A fine fellow: his breath came without panting, and his colour never changed, as he said to Sanzang: "What luck, what luck! This mountain-cat will keep the elder in food for a whole day." Sanzang praised him without end, saying: "The Guardian is a very mountain-god!" Boqin said: "What skill have I, that I should merit such praise? This is the elder's own good fortune. Come, let us skin it early and boil some of the meat to make you a meal."

"Mountain-cat" again, and this time over the corpse. Boqin's composure is the detail to watch — no panting, no change of colour — and the novel sets it directly against the monk who went limp on the grass a moment ago. Then he credits the kill to his guest's good luck and starts thinking about supper.