天曉權歇 A Halt at Daybreak
這一夜馬不停蹄，行到天曉。三藏道：「這個猴頭弄殺我也，你因為嘴，帶累我一夜無眠。」行者道：「不要只管埋怨。天色明了，你且在這路旁邊樹林中將就歇歇，養養精神再走。」那長老只得下馬，倚松根權作禪床坐下；沙僧歇了擔子打盹；八戒枕著石睡覺。孫大聖偏有心腸，你看他跳樹扳枝頑耍。四眾歇息不題。这一夜马不停蹄，行到天晓。三藏道：「这个猴头弄杀我也，你因为嘴，带累我一夜无眠。」行者道：「不要只管埋怨。天色明了，你且在这路旁边树林中将就歇歇，养养精神再走。」那长老只得下马，倚松根权作禅床坐下；沙僧歇了担子打盹；八戒枕着石睡觉。孙大圣偏有心肠，你看他跳树扳枝顽耍。四众歇息不题。
逐句解 Line by line
That whole night the horse never rested a hoof, and they travelled until the sky grew light.
馬不停蹄, mǎ bù tíng tí, "the horse never stopping its hooves," is alive and well in modern Chinese for anyone working flat out without a break — the phrase a colleague uses about a week of back-to-back meetings. Here it is literal. 行到天曉 takes 行 as xíng, "to travel."
Sanzang said, "This monkey-head has worn me half to death! On account of your appetite, you have burdened me with a whole night without sleep."
The complaint of a man who has not slept. 弄殺我也, nòng shā wǒ yě, is "he has worn me to death." 因為嘴, "on account of [your] mouth," has 為 as wèi, "because of" — and 嘴, the mouth, standing in for appetite, which lands squarely on the disciple who started the whole affair by listening at a wall. 帶累, is to drag somebody into your trouble.
The Pilgrim said, "Do not keep on complaining.
只管, zhǐ guǎn, "keep on and on." 埋怨, mán yuàn, to grumble.
"The sky is light now; just make do with a rest here in this roadside wood, restore your spirits, and then go on."
將就, jiāng jiù, is "make do" — still the ordinary word for putting up with second best. 養養精神, yǎng yǎng jīng shén, is to feed your spirits back up; the doubling makes it gentle, more "have a little rest" than an order.
The elder could only dismount and sit down against a pine-root for a makeshift meditation-couch; Wujing set down the load and dozed; Bajie pillowed his head on a stone and fell asleep.
Three sleepers, three postures, one line each. 權作禪床, quán zuò chán chuáng, is "for the time being, a meditation couch" — a pine root pressed into service. 擔子 is the load, with 擔 as the noun dàn. 枕著石睡覺 takes 著 as zhe, action under way, and 覺 as jiào, the sleep reading inside 睡覺.
Only the Great Sage Sun, ever restless of heart, went leaping in the trees and clambering the branches at his play.
偏有心腸, piān yǒu xīn cháng, is having a contrary streak — being in the mood when nobody else is. 扳枝, pān zhī, is hauling yourself up by the branches, with 扳 standing in for 攀, "to climb." 頑耍, wán shuǎ, to romp.
The four of them took their rest—of that no more.
不題, bù tí, "no more of this" — the storyteller putting one thread down to pick up another. He will use it again the moment he leaves the abbey.
A short bridging scene, and a good one. The exhausted party stops at first light; Sanzang, sore and sleepless, blames the appetite that started it; and Wukong, who does not need sleep, goes up a tree to play. The three postures — the elder propped against a pine root, Wujing dozing over the luggage, Bajie with his head on a stone — are drawn in a line each and tell you everything about the state they are in.
The stillness is also a piece of timing. The pilgrims think they have got away, and the reader is about to be shown that they have not: the very next passage cuts to the abbey gate and a master coming home. Leaving them asleep under the trees is how the storyteller makes the pursuit land.