The River of Heaven shows its image; the jade vault is without a mote.

銀河, the Silver River, is the Milky Way; 玉宇 is the jade vault of the sky. The rhyme of this night-piece runs in -en and -un: 塵, 痕, 昏, 聞.

The sky is filled with glittering stars; one stream has drawn in the traces of its waves.

收痕 — the water has drawn its own ripples back in, the way a hand closes. The 一 before third-tone 水 comes out yì.

Ten thousand hollow voices are stilled; on a thousand hills the birds are gone.

萬籟, the ten thousand pipings of the earth, comes from the second chapter of the Zhuangzi, where the wind blowing through every hollow thing is the great image for the world making its noises.

By the brook the fishing-fires are out; on the pagoda the Buddha-lamp burns low.

佛燈: 佛 is fixed at fó. A monastery lamp burning down to nothing, seen from outside, above a monastery that burned last night.

Last night the acharya's bell and drum resounded; tonight one round of weeping is all that is heard.

闍黎 is Chinese for Sanskrit ācārya, a preceptor; 闍 reads shé here, not dū. The couplet sets last night's bell and drum against tonight's weeping, and it is the only mourning the dead abbot receives anywhere in the chapter. Note who receives it — the landscape, not any person standing in it.

That night they lodged in the meditation hall. Sanzang, thinking on the cassock — how should he sleep sound?

想著 takes zhe, a state kept up all night. 那裡得穩睡 is a question: 那 is nǎ, and 得 is the potential dé — how was he to get any sound sleep?

Turning suddenly, he saw whiteness through the window, and rose in haste, calling: "Wukong, it is light! Go quickly and find the cassock."

天明了 — the particle 了 reads le. The automatic reading here would be liǎo, as it also would at 便了, and it is wrong both times.

The Pilgrim rolled up out of his bed in one bound, and saw the monks standing in attendance with hot water offered ready.

一骨魯 is a noise word, a scrambling roll, and it gets written several different ways (一骨碌, 一骨鹿). Because there is no single character it is really standing in for, the ordinary syllable-by-syllable reading gǔ lǔ stands — the one exception to the rule that a borrowed character takes the reading of the word it writes. 跳將起來: 將 is the verbal particle jiāng. 供奉 takes gòng.

The Pilgrim said, "Do you serve my master with a will. Old Sun is off."

伏侍 is to wait upon somebody. He gives his orders to the monks and not to his master.

Sanzang got down from the bed and caught hold of him. "Where are you going?"

那裡 is asking here, nǎ, where. Sanzang has to physically grab hold of him to find out where he is going.

The Pilgrim said, "I reckon this whole business is Guanyin's fault.

沒理 is to be in the wrong; 沒 reads méi. Having burned the cloister down himself, the Pilgrim has arrived at the view that its patroness is at fault.

She keeps this meditation cloister here, she takes the incense of the households hereabouts, and yet she suffers that fiend to live next door.

鄰住 is to live next door. The complaint is essentially about zoning: the Bodhisattva has allowed a fiend to settle beside her own foundation and gone on collecting the district's incense regardless.

I shall go to the Southern Sea and find her, and have a word with her, and make her come herself to demand the cassock of the fiend and return it to me."

講一講 — doubling the verb makes the proposed interview sound like a quiet word. 教 is the causative jiào and 還 the verb huán, hand back. He is proposing to send a Bodhisattva out on his errand.

Sanzang said, "If you go, when will you return?" The Pilgrim said, "At the least, before breakfast is cleared; at the most, by noon — and the thing is done.

時少 and 時多 are at the least and at the most. 少 reads shǎo. He gives an estimate accurate to the nearest meal.

Let those monks serve you well. Old Sun is off."

He is about to fly to the Southern Sea to hold a Bodhisattva to account, and the last thing out of his mouth is 可好伏侍 — mind you look after him properly. A reminder to the monks about breakfast.