The wall projected then abruptly and made a right angle.
Now Wogan had spent his boyhood at Rathcoffey among cliffs and rocks.
This wall, he reflected, could not be more than twelve feet high.

Would his strength last out?
He came to the conclusion that it must.
He took off his heavy boots and flung them one by one over the wall.
Then he pulled off his coat at the cost of some pain and an added weakness, for the coat was stuck to his wounds and had roughly staunched them.

He could feel the blood again soaking his shirt.

There was all the more need, then, for hurry.

He stood up, jammed his back into the angle of the wall, stretched out his arms on each side, pressing with his elbows and hands, and then bending his knees crossed his legs tailor fashion, and set the soles of his stockinged feet firmly against the bricks on each side.