白玉為證 The White-Jade Token
那娘娘道:「兒啊,外人之言,你怎麼就信為實?」太子道:「兒還不敢認實,父王遺下表記與他了。」娘娘問是何物,太子袖中取出那金廂白玉珪,遞與娘娘。那娘娘認得是當時國王之寶,止不住淚如泉湧。叫聲:「主公,你怎麼死去三年,不來見我,卻先見聖僧,後見太子?」太子道:「母親,這話是怎的說?」那娘娘道:「儿啊,外人之言,你怎么就信为实?」太子道:「儿还不敢认实,父王遗下表记与他了。」娘娘问是何物,太子袖中取出那金厢白玉珪,递与娘娘。那娘娘认得是当时国王之宝,止不住泪如泉涌。叫声:「主公,你怎么死去三年,不来见我,却先见圣僧,后见太子?」太子道:「母亲,这话是怎的说?」
逐句解 Line by line
The lady said: 'My child — the word of an outsider — how can you simply take it for the truth?'
Her first instinct is a good one: why take a stranger's word for anything? 外人之言 is exactly that, 'the word of an outsider.' 那 = nà; 兒啊 is 兒 used to call out to him, ér; 信為實 takes 為 as wéi, 'to take as.'
The prince said: 'Your son still dared not confirm it, but my royal father left behind a token and gave it to him.'
So he produces evidence. 遺下表記 is to leave behind a token of proof (遺 = yí) — the white-jade tablet the king's ghost pressed on Wukong in the previous chapter. The prince calls himself 兒, ér, 'your son,' throughout. 還 = hái.
The lady asked what the thing was, and the prince drew from his sleeve that gold-rimmed white-jade gui and handed it to her.
金廂白玉珪: a white-jade 珪 (guī) set in a gold rim. A gui is the long ceremonial tablet a ruler held at audience — the object that says, wordlessly, that its holder is the sovereign. Both characters here are variant spellings: 廂 stands for 鑲, 'to inlay,' and 珪 for 圭. 袖中: 中 = zhōng; 那 = nà; 太子: 子 = zǐ.
The lady recognized it as the treasure of the king of that former time, and could not stop her tears from welling up like a spring.
認得, to recognize, with 得 as dé. No argument was needed; the object did it. 當時國王之寶 is the treasure of the king of that earlier time — the phrasing already concedes that the man on the throne is somebody else. 那 = nà.
She cried aloud: 'My lord — how is it that, dead these three years, you have not come to see me, but appeared first to the holy monk and then to the prince?'
主公, 'my lord,' is how she addresses her dead husband. What follows is not statecraft but a wife's complaint: you went to a monk, and then to our son, and never came to me. The supernatural machinery of the plot suddenly has a marriage inside it. 太子: 子 = zǐ.
The prince said: 'Mother, what do you mean by these words?'
He does not yet know she has dreamed too. The question hands her the floor. 太子: 子 = zǐ.
The queen's first instinct is prudent skepticism — why should an outsider's word be believed? — and the prince answers not with argument but with an object: the king's own jade tablet, pressed on Wukong by the ghost in the chapter before. The proof passes from sleeve to hand, and her recognition needs no words at all. She simply starts crying.
Her cry to her dead husband turns the scene from politics to grief. The reproach — that he showed himself to a monk and to their son before coming to her — is a wife's complaint, not a queen's, and it deepens the chapter's insistence that the truest knowledge of a king lives inside his marriage.
The prince's puzzled question at the end marks a gap in what he knows: he has no idea his mother has been dreaming too. The novel has parcelled the truth out among three witnesses — monk, son, wife — each holding a fragment, and here the fragments start to be laid side by side.