路傍呼救 A Cry for Help by the Road
他在那大路傍,妝做個跌折腿的道士,腳上血淋淋,口裡哼哼的,只叫:「救人!救人!」卻說這三藏仗著孫大聖與沙僧,歡喜前來。正行處,只聽得叫:「師父救人!」三藏聞得,道:「善哉!善哉!這曠野山中,四下裡更無村舍,是甚麼人叫?想必是虎豹狼蟲諕倒的。」這長老兜回駿馬,叫道:「那有難者是甚人?可出來。」他在那大路傍,妆做个跌折腿的道士,脚上血淋淋,口里哼哼的,只叫:「救人!救人!」却说这三藏仗着孙大圣与沙僧,欢喜前来。正行处,只听得叫:「师父救人!」三藏闻得,道:「善哉!善哉!这旷野山中,四下里更无村舍,是甚么人叫?想必是虎豹狼虫諕倒的。」这长老兜回骏马,叫道:「那有难者是甚人?可出来。」
逐句解 Line by line
There by the high road he got himself up as a Daoist with a broken leg, blood dripping down his foot, groaning and moaning, crying only: "Save me! Save me!"
To the holy costume he now adds the pose of a victim: 妝做 (zhuāng zuò), "got himself up as," a Daoist with 跌折腿 (diē zhé tuǐ), a leg snapped in a fall, and 哼哼 (hēng hēng) for the moaning. Note the reading of 血 here in 血淋淋: xiě, the everyday spoken form. The same character turns up in the next passage in a plainer sentence and takes its bookish reading instead. Those are the only two 血 in the chapter, and they take one reading each.
Now Tripitaka, relying on the Great Sage Sun and Sha Monk, came happily along.
仗著 (zhàng zhe), "with the backing of," takes the 著 of a state that keeps going. With two bodyguards at his elbow the master travels without a care -- which is precisely the security the demon has been counting on.
Just as they went, they heard a cry: "Master, save me!"
正行處 (zhèng xíng chù), "just as they were going along." 聽得 (tīng de), "caught the sound of." And the cry has changed since we last heard it: on the roadside it was "save me," but the moment the pilgrims are in earshot it becomes "Master, save me."
Tripitaka heard it and said: "Merciful Heaven, merciful Heaven! In these wild hills, with never a hamlet on any side — who can be crying? Surely someone frightened witless by tigers, leopards, wolves, or serpents."
善哉 (shàn zāi), "how good, mercy on us," is a Buddhist exclamation -- the sound a monk makes at anything pitiable. 諕 (xià) is again the borrowed character for 嚇, and 諕倒 is scared into collapse. What matters is the order of Tripitaka's thoughts: pity first, then an innocent explanation, and suspicion nowhere.
The Elder reined his fine horse around and called: "Who is it that's in distress? Come out."
兜回 (dōu huí), "to rein a mount about." 有難者 (yǒu nàn zhě) is "one in trouble" -- 難 read nàn, "calamity," not nán, "difficult," a distinction the same character carries in Pilgrim's own 大難 later on. 甚人, "what person, who," the question-word shén.
The trap is now fully baited. To the holy costume the demon adds the helpless victim -- a snapped leg, blood on the foot, steady moaning -- and the story cuts to the pilgrims coming cheerfully along, secure in their bodyguard. The two threads meet on a single cry. The craft is all in the timing: the appeal reaches Tripitaka at the one moment his guard is fully down.
His response is pure character. Where Pilgrim would suspect, the master exclaims in pity and immediately supplies a kind explanation -- some poor soul frightened by beasts. Turning his horse to call the sufferer out is the first fatal step of a benevolence his enemy has engineered in advance. Even the grammar cooperates: 難, read nàn, frames the fiend as a man met with calamity.