The signal was repeated, whistle answering whistle, till the sounds lost themselves in the distance.

At once the line of ploughs lost its immobility, moving forward, getting slowly under way, the horses straining in the traces.

A prolonged movement rippled from team to team, disengaging in its passage a multitude of sounds---the click of buckles, the creak of straining leather, the subdued clash of machinery, the cracking of whips, the deep breathing of nearly four hundred horses, the abrupt commands and cries of the drivers, and, last of all, the prolonged, soothing murmur of the thick brown earth turning steadily from the multitude of advancing shears.
The ploughing thus commenced, continued.

The sun rose higher.

Steadily the hundred iron hands kneaded and furrowed and stroked the brown, humid earth, the hundred iron teeth bit deep into the Titan's flesh.