Before the examination begins, Dante breaks in a remarkable personal aside — speaking as himself, the exile, to Florence. If the sacred poem — this Comedy that has made him lean for many years, the work of both Heaven and earth — if it ever overcomes the cruelty of exile that keeps him locked outside the beautiful sheepfold of Florence where he slept as a lamb, he will return to that font of his baptism and be crowned poet there. It is a dream of return that he knows, perhaps, will never come. The tender vulnerability of the aside is startling after the sustained theological elevation of the preceding cantos.
James, the apostle associated with hope, approaches and embraces Peter. Dante is overcome at the sight of the two greatest apostles meeting in his presence. James examines him: what is hope? Dante defers to Peter to certify that he possesses it, then defines it — a certain expectation of future glory, produced by divine grace and preceding merit. James presses: where did this hope come from for you? From the Psalms, from Isaiah, from the apostolic letters — the Bible's consistent promise. What does hope promise? The angels and the blessed souls of Heaven are the first fruits of it; Dante himself, still in the flesh, an early guest at the promised feast.
St. John, the beloved disciple, approaches — and Dante stares at him so intently, hoping to see whether John was assumed bodily into Heaven (as popular legend held), that he temporarily blinds himself. John gently corrects him: no, only Christ and Mary were assumed body and soul. John's glorified body awaits the Resurrection like everyone else's. Dante recovers his sight — and finds Beatrice more beautiful than before.