The landscape slowly unfolds as you continue trudging down the road.
The sun begins to dip in the sky. As you approach a town near your destination, you emerge from a copse of trees to see an armed contingent riding out to meet you. Their uniforms, cloth in the Revolutionary colors of blue, white, and red, identify them as a brigade of the National Guard: the new militia force of France.
One Guardsman pulls up alongside you and dismounts his sturdy black horse. His face and uniform are covered in dust, painting the days-old stubble on his face a light gray. "Sorry to bother you, Madame," he says as he sizes you up. "We're simply looking into all travelers, given the troubles we've had around here lately."
The other militia members hang back, looking tired, their faces lined and worn, as if they've gone without sleep for more than a day.
How do you feel about the Guard's presence here?