Watch those little imps carry the elder in and set him down outside the bamboo curtain, then joyfully report: “Great King, we've caught the monk and brought him in.”

They set him down outside the curtain and report cheerfully. 那 is nà, twice; 擡得 and 拿得 both take the unstressed de; 長老 takes zhǎng; 簾兒 ends in the curled er.

The old fiend stole a glance, and saw that Tripitaka held his head high, his features imposing — truly a fine monk indeed.

Even bound, he looks impressive, and the demon notices. 那 is nà; 三藏 takes zàng.

And he thought to himself: “A monk this fine must be a personage from the upper realms, no trifling nobody. If I don't put on a show of majesty, how will he ever submit?”

The most revealing line in the passage, and it is a calculation. He does not roar because he is angry; he works out that a captive this distinguished will need overawing, and decides to put on a show. 服降 takes 降 as xiáng, to submit, not jiàng, to descend.

All at once, borrowing the tiger's terror as the fox does, he made his red whiskers bristle up on end, his blood-red hair stand toward the sky, his eyes split wide, and roared out: “Bring that monk in!”

狐假虎威 — the fox borrows the tiger's terror — is a fable everyone in China knows from childhood: a fox walks ahead of a tiger and the animals scatter, and the fox takes the credit. It is the standard phrase for anyone throwing weight that isn't theirs. The novel uses it on the demon at the exact moment he is manufacturing his own ferocity. 紅鬚倒豎 takes 倒 as dào, bristling backwards; 血髮朝天 takes 朝 as cháo, facing toward.

The whole crowd of imps answered with a resounding “Aye!” and shoved Tripitaka on inside. This was a case of ‘once you're under a low eave, how dare you not bow your head.’

既在矮檐下, 怎敢不低頭 — once you are under a low eave, how dare you not bow your head. Still current, and still meaning exactly what it means here: bend, because the roof is not going to rise for you. 三藏 takes zàng.

Tripitaka could only press his palms together and make him a bow. Said the fiend, “Where are you from, monk? Whence do you come? Whither do you go? Speak, and quickly!”

All four 那 of this segment in one place, and they split. 那妖 takes nà, that fiend, pointing; the three 那裡 of the interrogation take nǎ — where are you from, whence, whither. Pointing once, asking three times. 只得 takes dé; 合著 ends in the unstressed zhe.

Said Tripitaka, “I am by origin a monk of the Tang, sent by command of the Great Tang Emperor to journey west in search of the scriptures. Passing your honored mountain, I came especially to pay reverence beneath the pagoda, never meaning to disturb Your Majesty — I beg your pardon. When I have fetched the scriptures back to the Eastern Land, your high name shall be recorded forever.”

He answers with his credentials. Tang monk, imperial commission, scriptures, and the promise to record the demon's high name forever — 敕命 is an emperor's written order and 謁聖 is paying reverence at a shrine. It is the courteous formula he offers at every court and cave on the road, and here it is worse than useless: he is handing over a valuation of himself. 三藏 takes zàng; 唐朝 takes 朝 as cháo, dynasty; 取得 takes dé.

When the fiend heard this, he roared with laughter: “I said you were a personage of the upper kingdom, and so you are! I was just wanting to eat you — how very well you've come, how very well; otherwise I might have let you slip by! You are meat for my mouth, bound to blunder in of yourself; released, you'd not get free — fleeing, you'd not escape!”

And the demon hears it exactly that way. A personage of the upper kingdom, he says, so you are — meaning the meat is as good as advertised. 上邦人物 is a person from the superior country, which is how the outer world is supposed to speak of China and how this monster speaks of his dinner. 那妖 takes nà; 甚好 takes shén, twice; 撞將 takes jiāng.

He called to the imps, “Take that monk and bind him.” And sure enough the little imps rushed forward in a mass, wound the elder round with rope and cord, and lashed him to the soul-fixing stake.

定魂樁 is the soul-fixing stake — not merely a post to tie a prisoner to, but one that pins the soul so it cannot slip out. In a book whose heroes routinely leave their bodies, that is a meaningful piece of furniture. All three 那 here take nà; 長老 takes zhǎng.