Eight Rules laughed and said, "What luck! If it really is that very story, let us go and pinch a brick or two off him to give away." Everyone had another laugh, and Tripitaka at last got down off his horse.

Eight Rules brings the whole thing back to earth in one line. A story about the most celebrated act of generosity in Buddhism, and his response is to wonder whether any of the gold is still lying about.

摸他塊把磚兒 — pinch a brick or two off him — has that lovely vagueness of 塊把, a lump or so, the way English says a couple. He is not even planning a proper theft, just a bit of light helping himself.

They entered the mountain gate, and there below it were men with carrying-poles, men with packs, men pushing barrows, and whole cartloads settled down for the night: some of those sleeping had gone to sleep, and some of those talking had gone on talking. Suddenly they caught sight of the four of them, master and disciples, the handsome ones handsomer and the ugly ones uglier, and everyone was somewhat afraid, and did in fact make a little room for them.

挑擔的 — the pole-carriers. The load itself is 擔, read dàn when it is the thing carried rather than the act of carrying. The novel makes that distinction all the way through and this chapter uses only the load.

也有睡的去睡，講的去講 is a lovely piece of throwaway observation — the sleepers went on sleeping and the talkers went on talking. A courtyard full of travellers, and nobody looks up.

俊的又俊，醜的又醜 — the handsome handsomer, the ugly uglier — is the narrator having it both ways in four words. Tripitaka is the handsome one.

Tripitaka, in great fear of trouble, kept saying under his breath, "Manners. Manners." At this the company all pulled themselves in somewhat. They rounded the hall of the guardian kings, and out came a Chan monk, of no common bearing.

斯文 is one of the oldest words in this book, out of the Analects, where it means this culture of ours. By the Ming it had worn down to something like mind your manners or behave like a gentleman, which is how Tripitaka is using it — hissing at his disciples to stop attracting attention.

The word comes back four more times in this chapter, all of them in the refectory a few pages on — but not from Tripitaka. Sha Monk hisses it at Eight Rules over the rice, and Eight Rules throws it back at him.

金剛殿 is the hall of the guardian kings, the first building inside a temple gate, where the fierce painted figures stand. The party is walking inward through a real monastery plan.

Truly:

真是 — truly — is the cue that verse is coming, the same way the temple description was cued a few pages back. The novel has a small stock of these and uses them like a stage direction.

What follows is four lines of five characters each, and every one of them is a compliment.

"His face like the light of the full moon, his body like a bodhi tree;"

A face like the full moon is standard praise for a holy man — round, calm, evenly lit. The 菩提樹 is the bodhi tree, the one the Buddha sat under, so comparing a monk's body to it is about as high as praise goes.

Nothing here is ironic. The novel means it: he is a good man. That is exactly what will make the rest of his story land.

"holding his staff, his sleeves streaming in the wind, in straw sandals on the stone road."

擁錫 — holding the tin staff, the ringed staff a monk carries. The rings jingle as he walks, which is the point: a monk on the road announces himself so that he treads on nothing living.

芒鞋石頭路 brings the portrait down to the ground. After the moon and the bodhi tree, straw sandals on stone.

Keep the picture in mind. This calm and well-turned-out monk is the one who has a young woman chained in an outbuilding, and who has been waiting a year for somebody like Tripitaka to walk through the gate.