The Pilgrim came to the gate and saw that the two leaves of stone were shut very fast.

關得甚緊 packs two easily-confused readings into four characters. 得 is the de that introduces how something is done, and 甚 is the intensifier shèn, very — not the shén of 甚麼, what. Both readings turn up inside this one passage.

Above them lay a slab set crosswise, plainly inscribed with six great graphs: BLACK WIND MOUNTAIN, BLACK WIND CAVE. At once he swung his rod and cried, "Open the gate!"

Six characters on a slab over the door: 黑風山黑風洞, Black Wind Mountain, Black Wind Cave. Repeating the name is not sloppiness but the convention for such inscriptions — the mountain and the cave are both being claimed.

Within there was a little demon on gate duty, who opened up and came out, demanding, "Who are you, that you dare come battering at our immortal cave?"

那裡面 is pointing, nà. 把門, holding the gate, is the porter's job. And 吾 — the lofty classical I — coming out of a gate-demon's mouth is comically above his station.

The Pilgrim cursed him: "You death-courting beast! What manner of place is this, to be styled an immortal cave?

孽畜, niè chù, is a beast whose karma is bad; 作死 is to court death by your own behaviour. 稱 is chēng, to style or call.

Is the graph 'immortal' yours to use? Get inside quickly and report to that black fellow of yours.

Those single corner brackets 『　』 are quoting 仙 as a character rather than using it as a word. The Pilgrim is disputing the porter's right to the inscription itself — a philological argument, conducted with a cudgel.

Tell him to send out this venerable one's cassock at once, and I will spare the whole nest of your lives."

教 here is causative, jiào — the reading that means make someone do a thing. Note the two nouns on either side of it: 老爺, the venerable one, is what the Pilgrim calls himself, and 一窩, one nestful, is what he calls them.

The little demon ran headlong within and reported, "Great King, the Buddha-Robe Feast cannot be held.

佛 is fixed at fó throughout. And notice the demon's running order: he reports the collapse of the party first and the intruder second. That is the household's sense of priorities, in one sentence.

Outside the gate there is a hairy-faced, thunder-god-snouted monk come to demand the cassock."

毛臉雷公嘴 — hairy of face, snouted like the Thunder Duke — is the fixed description of the Pilgrim in the mouth of anyone meeting him for the first time. 哩 is the sentence-final particle, read li as settled in chapter 16.

The black fellow, whom the Pilgrim had driven from the slope of fragrant grass, had only just barred the gate and was not yet settled in his seat

趕將來: 將 is the direction-marking particle, jiāng. In 坐還未穩, 還 is the adverb hái, not yet — not the verb huán, give back, that appeared in 還我 a moment ago.

when he heard this speech. He thought within himself, "There is no knowing where this creature has come from.

Two instances of 那 in one line, with two different readings that have to be told apart by where they sit. 那話, that speech, is pointing: nà. 那裡來的, where has he come from, is asking: nǎ. 聽得 takes the linking de.

To be so lacking in manners that he dares come bawling up to my gate!"

這般 reads bān. What offends the fiend is not the accusation but the manners — 嚷上我的門來, to come bawling right up to a man's own front door.

He called for his armour, harnessed himself accordingly, snatched up a black-tasselled spear, and came out at the gate.

綽 is chāo, to snatch up, the reading proper to a weapon grabbed in haste (as in 綽了朴刀); the more familiar chuò would be wrong here. 結束 keeps its old sense, to gird yourself for action, rather than the modern one of finishing.

The Pilgrim, dodging aside beyond the gate, held his iron rod and opened his eyes wide to look; and the fiend was indeed of a fearful aspect:

執著 takes zhe: a state kept up while a second action, 觀看, goes on. Contrast 尋著 and 撞著, where the goal is reached and the reading is zháo. 生得 takes the manner-marking de.

A bowl-shaped iron helm with the sheen of lacquered fire; black-gold mail agleam and dazzling bright.

碗子 names the helmet by its shape, a bowl turned over; the 子 is the toneless suffix. 火漆 is sealing-wax, and the comparison is to its hard black shine.

A black gauze gown drawn over wind-hooded sleeves; a dark-green silken sash, its tassels drooping long.

軃, duǒ, is to hang slack. 長 has to be cháng, long: it is the rhyme-word, tying 光, 煌, 雙 and 王 together in -ang, and the zhǎng of 長老, elder, would wreck both the sense and the sound.

In his hand he grips one black-tasselled spear; upon his feet he treads a pair of black leather boots.

一桿 and 一雙 both put 一 before a first-tone character, so both come out yì. The couplet is pure inventory — this poem is a description of kit and nothing else.

His eyes flash golden pupils like a stroke of lightning: this is none other than the Black Wind King of the mountain.

掣電 is lightning drawn out like a blade being pulled. The last line names him, and the name he gets is the mountain's own: he is a wind, and black, before he is anything with fur. The reader only learns he is a bear from the chapter title.