巧語花言 Honeyed Words, a False Tale
那怪巧語花言，虛情假意道：「師父啊，此山西去，有一座清幽觀宇，我是那觀裡的道士。」三藏道：「你不在本觀中侍奉香火，演習經法，為何在此閑行？」那魔道：「因前日山南里施主家邀道眾禳星散福來晚，我師徒二人一路而行。行至深衢，忽遇著一隻斑斕猛虎，將我徒弟銜去。貧道戰兢兢的無奔走，一跤跌在亂石坡上，傷了腿足，不知回路。那怪巧语花言，虚情假意道：「师父啊，此山西去，有一座清幽观宇，我是那观里的道士。」三藏道：「你不在本观中侍奉香火，演习经法，为何在此闲行？」那魔道：「因前日山南里施主家邀道众禳星散福来晚，我师徒二人一路而行。行至深衢，忽遇著一只斑斓猛虎，将我徒弟衔去。贫道战兢兢的无奔走，一跤跌在乱石坡上，伤了腿足，不知回路。
逐句解 Line by line
The fiend, all honeyed words and false-faced feeling, said: “Master, west of this mountain there stands a serene abbey, and I am a Daoist of that abbey.”
巧語花言 (qiǎo yǔ huā yán), “clever speech and flowery words,” i.e. glib deceit; 虛情假意, “empty feeling, false intent.” 觀宇 (guàn yǔ) and 那觀裡 take 觀 as guàn, “a Daoist abbey,” not guān, “to observe.”
Tripitaka said: “If you're not at your own abbey tending the incense-fires and rehearsing the scriptures, why are you idling about out here?”
本觀 (běn guàn), “your own abbey,” 觀 again guàn. 侍奉香火 (shì fèng xiāng huǒ), “to tend the incense and lamps” of a temple. 為何 (wèi hé), “for what reason, why” — 為 read wèi, the preposition.
The demon said: “The day before, a patron's household away south of the mountain had invited us clergy to avert the baleful stars and share out blessings; we were late returning, and my disciple and I were traveling the road together.
施主 (shī zhǔ), “a donor, patron” of a temple. 禳星散福 (ráng xīng sàn fú), “to exorcise ill stars and distribute blessings” — a Daoist rite; 散 is sàn, “to give out.” The fiend furnishes his tale with plausible liturgical detail.
Coming to a deep byway, we suddenly met a great striped tiger, which seized my disciple in its jaws and bore him off.
深衢 (shēn qú), “a deep thoroughfare, a remote road.” 遇著 (yù zháo), “chanced to meet” — the resultative 著 (zháo). 將 is the disposal coverb jiāng, “took (my disciple) and…,” here “seized and carried off.”
I, poor Daoist, trembling and with no way to flee, took a tumble on a slope of tumbled rocks, hurt my leg, and cannot find the way back.
貧道 (pín dào), “this poor Daoist,” a priest's humble self-reference. 戰兢兢 (zhàn jīng jīng), “trembling with fright.” 一跤跌 (yì jiāo diē), “took a fall.” The tale supplies both a lost companion and a wounded leg to move the master to pity.
The demon spins his fabrication with a craftsman's care: a serene abbey to the west, a patron's rite of star-averting, a homeward journey, a man-eating tiger that carried off his disciple, a fall among the rocks. Each element is chosen for plausibility and pathos — liturgical detail to establish him as a genuine adept, a devoured companion and a broken leg to compel rescue. The storyteller labels the performance in advance (“honeyed words and false-faced feeling”), so the reader weighs every particular as fraud.
Tripitaka's single interjection — why is a temple-Daoist idling on the road rather than tending his incense? — is the natural question of a fellow religious, and it only draws the fiend deeper into invention. The passage turns on the graph 觀, read throughout as guàn, “Daoist abbey”: the fictitious temple is the anchor of the whole deceit, the respectable home to which the “injured priest” begs to be carried — and toward which he means to lead the master into ambush.